II 


. 


I&5K 


X    . 


v  -»A\  O 


INGENUE: 

OR, 

THE  FIRST  DAYS  OF  BLOOD 

B? 

ALEXANDRE      DUMAS. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  MSS. 


BT 


MADAME   JULIE  DE  MARGUERITTE3. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
LIPPIXCOTT,   GRAMBO    &    CO. 

1855. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1855    by 
C.  E.  PRETAT  A  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  thf 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAOK. 
The  Palais  Royal 13 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Tree  of  Cracow, 20 

CHAPTER  HI. 
The  news-mongers, 38 

CHAPTER  IV. 

A  dinner  at  Danton's, 37 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  dinner, 49 

CHAPTER  VI. 

The  club  of  the  socialists, 62 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  club  of  the  rights  of  man, 76 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  white  slaves,. 81 

CHAPTER  DC. 

The  white  slaves, 91 

CHAPTER  X. 
The  ^curies  of  the  Count  d'ArtoU 97 

CHAPTER  XI. 
The  home  of  Marat 102 

CHAPTER  XIL 
What  Marat  was  In  1788, « 107 

CHAPTER  XIH. 
The  Prince  Olinski, Ill 

CHAPTER  XTV. 
Cecile  Olinaka, 117 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Mutual  instruction, 119 

CHAPIER  XVL 
The  plot  thickens,. 124 


2026873 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  interest  deepens, 129 

CHAPTER  XVin. 
How  the  adventures  of  Marat  became  interwoven  with  those  of  the 

king, 13* 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

In  which  Marat,  after  havmg  become  acquainted  with  the  officers 
of  the  king's  household,  is  introduced  to  the  jailors  of  the  pris- 
ons of  the  Empress  Catharine,  of  Russia, 139 

CHAPTER  XX. 

Two  different  views  of  the  same  circumstance, .145 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  effigy  of  the  Place  Dauphine, 153 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Ingdnue,.. 162 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Father  and  daughter, 174 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  <Smeute , 177 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

Christian 183 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

In  which  Retifs  suspicions  are  confirmed, 191 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  tempter, 195 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

The  simplicity  of  Ingenue, 209 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Monsieur  Auger, 218 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  Abb<5  Bonhomme, 225 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  confession, t 229 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

In  which  Retif  and  Ingenue  forgive, 235 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
An  aristocrat  and  a  democrat  of  the  Fabourg  St.  Antoine, 239 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
Retifs  dinner, %% 


CONTEXTS.  XI 

CHAPTER   XXXV. 

The  surgeon  and  his  patient, 248 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  consultation, 253 

CHAPTKU  XXXVII. 
In  which   Dantcn  begins  to  think    that  Marat's   novel  was  not  a 

novel,  but  a  true  story 258 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

What  went  on  in  Marat's  apartment, 2G3 

CHAPTKR  XXXIX. 

How  the  Countess  understood  the  passion  of  love 2G3 

CHAPTER  XL. 

Ingenue  goes  out  alone,  and  meets  a  man  and  a  woman, 272 

CAAPTER  XLI. 

The  woman  who  boxed  Marat's  ears, 278 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

The  love  of  virtue  and  the  virtue  of  love, 283 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Anger  in  love, 289 

CHAPTER  XL1V. 

Christian's  convalescence, 292 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

What  was  going  on  all  this  time  in  the  rue  dcs  Bernardins, 295 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

What  took  place  on  the  evening  of  this  day 299 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Ingenue's  wedding-night, 304 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

The  way  in  which  Auger  was  received  by  the  Count  d'Artois, 310 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  prince  and  the  page 314 

CHAPTER  L. 

In  which  Christian  listens  to  reason,  preached  by  the  Count  d'Artois,.  .321 
CHAPTER  LI. 

An  instance  of  sympathy, 323 

CHAPTER  LIT. 

What  was  going  on  in  Ingenue's  room,  whilst  Christian  was  watch- 
ing in  the  street 331 


xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  Lin. 
The  jardin  des  plant«s, 334 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
In  which  the  author  finds  himself  obliged  to  enter  into  politics,. . .  .344 

CHAPTER  LV. 
Auger  begins  to  look  about  him, 351 

CHAPTER  LVI. 
Reveillon  becomes  ungrateful 357 

CHAPTER  LVII. 
In  which  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  gets  considerably  astonished, 362 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

The  sky  begins  to  darken, 369 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

The  storm  bursts, 373 

CHAPTER  LX. 

The  portrait, 380 

CHAPTER  LXI. 
The  key  of  Paradise, 385 

CHAPTER  LXII. 
Real  and  pretended  sorrow, 388 

CHAPTER  LXm. 
A  first  proof-sheet  of  one  of  Retif  de  la  Bretonne's  novels, 394 

CHAPTER  LXTV. 
What  can  be  seen  through  a  gimlet  hole, 398 

CHAPTER  LXV. 
In  which  Auger  ia  disturbed  at  dinner, 404 

CHAPTER  LXVL 
Retif  takes  Reveillon  out  for  a  walk, 408 

Epilogue, 413 


INGENUE: 

OR, 
THE   FIRST   DAYS  OF  BLOOD- 


CHAPTER   i. 

THE      PALAIS      ROYAL. 

lit  November,  1785,  the  Duke  de  Chartres  inherited,  with  the 
title  of  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  palace  designated  to  this  day  as  the 
Palais  Royal. 

Before  entering  into  a  description  of  the  improvements  and 
changes  which  its  pre.«ent  possessor  was.  at  the  time  our  story  be- 
gins, in  process  of  effecting,  we  will,  for  the  benefit  both  of  our 
story  and  the  reader,  trace  back  the  history  of  this  palace  to  its 
origin. 

It  was  in  1629  that  Jacques  Lemercicr.  architect  of  His  Emi- 
nence the  Cardinal  Duke  de  Richelieu,  built  on  the  ground  where 
the  mansions  of  the  houses  of  Rambouillet  and  Armagnac  had 
stood,  an  edifice  which  at  first  assumed  merely  the  title  of 
"  Hotel  Richelieu."  But,  as  the  power  which  inhabited  this  pal- 
ace continued  to  increase,  until  it  filled  the  whole  kingdom,  and 
broke  down  every  barrier,  this  habitation  became  too  small  and 
niggardly — the  ancient  walls  of  the  time  of  Charles  V  disap- 
peared ;  the  ditch  and  drawbridge,  (for,  like  all  mansions  of  old, 
this  one  had  been  a  fortress.)  disappeared  ;  a  palace  arose  ;  and 
the  courtiers  with  their  flatteries  penetrated  easily,  through  its 
wide  and  open  doors,  to  the  foot  of  the  Cardinal's  throne. 

The  archives  of  the  House  of  Richelieu  show  that  the  ground 


14  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

on  which  Jacques  Lemercier  raised  his  chef-cPcEuvre  was  paid 
eight  hundred  and  sixteen  thousand  six  hundred  and  eighteen 
francs — an  enormous  sum  in  those  days,  but  very  small  in  com- 
parison with  what  the  building  itself  must  have  cost.  This  was 
kept  secret,  in  the  same  way  as  Louis  XIV  concealed  how- 
much  Versailles  had  cost  him.  However,  such  was  the  magnifi- 
cence and  beauty  of  the  building,  that  Corneille,  the  autnor  of 
the  immortal  "  Cid,"  himself  livfng  in  a  garret,  thus  apostrophi- 
ses the  residence  of  the  author  of  the  worthless  and  forgotten 
tragedy  of  Mirame : 

Search  through  the  universe,  you  will  not  find 
Such  pride  and  splendor  as  are  here  combined. 
An  old  and  moss  grown  trench,  a  town  is  grown, 
Evoked  by  powers  which  none  but  heaven  may  own  : 
Beneath  this  roof  must  dwell  but  gods  and  kings  ; 
Fate  to  mere  mortals  such  abode  ne'er  brings." 

And,  truth  to  tell,  the  palace  was  magnificent  beyond  all  imagin- 
ation. Its  theatre,  large  enough  to  contain  three  thousand  spec- 
tators, and  in  which  were  played  all  the  pieces  given  at  the  large 
theatre  at  the  Marais  du  Temple  ;  its  saloons,  large  enough  for 
the  whole  Court,  the  ceilings  of  which  were  painted  by  Philippe 
de  Champagne  ;  its  gallery  of  great  men,  painted  by  Vouet, 
Juste  d'Egmont  and  Paerson,  and  in  which  the  Cardinal,  confi- 
dent in  himself  and  his  destiny,  had  reserved  a  place  for  his  own 
portrait ;  its  antique  statues,  sent  from  Rome  and  Florence ; 
its  Latin  inscriptions,  composed  by  Bourdon ;  its  devices,  ar- 
ranged by  Guisse ;  all  formed  so  magnificent  and  gorgeous  a  res- 
idence that  the  Cardinal  Duke,  who  was  not  easily  fright- 
ened, grew  alarmed  at  his  own  riches,  and  in  order  to  be  certain 
of  inhabiting  this  palace  of  his  creation  until  his  death,  made  a 
donation  of  it  in  his  life-time  to  his  royal  master,  Louis  XIII. 

And  so  it  happened  that,  on  the  4th  of  December,  1642,  the 
day  on  which  the  Cardinal  expired,  praying  God  to  punish  him 
in  the  other  world  if  he  had  ever  been  guilty  in  this  of  an  action 
which  had  not  been  for  the  good  of  the  State,  the  Palais  Cardi- 
nal assumed  the  name  of  the  Palais  Royal.  The  revolution  of 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  15 

1793  changed  this  appellation  to  that  of  "  Palais  Egalit6 ;"  whilst 
the  revolution  of  1848  has  definitely  decreed  that  henceforth  its 
name  should  be  (;  Palais  National." 

But,  as  we  belong  to  a  class  who,  spite  of  decrees,  preserve  to 
men  their  titles  and  to  things  their  names,  the  palace  will  for 
us  and  for  our  readers  still  remain  the  "  Palais  Royal." 

And  so  Louis  XIII  came  into  possession  of  this  splendid  abode. 
But  at  this  time  the  sad  and  melancholy  King  was  but  the 
shadow  of  the  deceased  Cardinal.  As  the  ghost  of  the  Royal 
Dane  beckoned  his  son,  so  did  the  spectre  of  the  Cardinal  haunt 
Louis  XIII ;  and  with  pale  brow  and  faltering  step,  the  King 
soon  followed  his  minister  into  the  narrow  abode  of  the  tomb. 

Then  it  was  that  the  joung  King,  Louis  XIV,  inherited  this 
palace— but  the  li  Frondeurs,"  those  powerful  enemies  of  another 
Cardinal,  less  grand  but  quite  as  great  a  politician  as  the  other, 
drove  the  King:,  his  mother,  and  bis'Coiirt,  from  the  shelter  of 
its  walls.  For  this  reason  the  youthful  monarch  took  a  disgust 
to  this  much-talked-of  palace ;  and  on  his  return  to  Paris,  on 
the  cessation  of  hostilities,  it  was  to  the  Louvre,  and  not  to  the 
Palais  Royal,  that  he  went. 

Then  this  edifice,  which  so  astonished  the  great  poet  Corneille, 
became  the  refuge  of  Henrietta  Maria,  whom  the  scaffold  of 
Whitehall  had  made  a  widow.  France  offered  this  palace  to 
Kiifrland.  as,  two  centuries  later.  England  offered  Holyrood  to 
Charles  X.  Solemn  and  sad  hospitalities  are  those  which  the 
Stuarts  and  Bourbons  have  exchanged  ! 

In  1G92.  the  Palais  Royal  was  given  as  a  dowry  to  Frances 
Marie  de  Blois.  the  daughter  of  Louis  XIV,  and  Madame  de 
Montespan — of  whose  listless  character  and  sleepy  beauty  the 
1'vi'ly  pen  of  the  Princess  Palatine  has  left  us  such  an  amusing 
portrait. 

It  was  the  Duke  de  Chartres.  afterwards  Regent  of  France. 
who.  spite  of  the  aversion  of  his  mother  to  the  alliance,  and  the 
box  on  the  ear  by  which  she  testified  it.  married  this  illegitimate 
daughter  of  the  King,  who  brought  this  palace  into  the  family 
of  Orleans. 


16  INGKXUE  J    OK, 

The  Duke  entailed  it  on  bis  eldest  son  and  his  descendants,  and 
the  donation  was  sanctioned  in  parliament  in  1693. 

During  the  years  which  intervened  between  the  flight  of  the 
infant  Louis  XIV  and  the  donation  to  the  Duke  de  Chartres, 
great  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  palace. 

Anne  of  Austria,  during  her  regency,  added  another  gallery, 
an  oratory  and  a  bath-room.  But  the  most  essential  of  her  im- 
provements was  the  celebrated  secret  passage  which  communi- 
cated from  her  apartments  to  those  of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  The 
existence  of  this  secret  passage,  revealed  by  the  indiscreet  Ger- 
man princess  whose  correspondence  is  now  of  such  service  to 
historical  research,*  was,  she  proceeds  to  say,  justified  by  the 
fact  that  Mazarin,  never  having  taken  priest's  orders,  had  secretly 
espoused  the  widow  of  Louis  XIII. 

And  so  we  know  that  the  woman  who  resisted  the  all-charm- 
ing and  devoted  Buckingham,  fell  into  the  arms  of  a  stingy,  low- 
born Italian  adventurer. 

Anne  of  Austria's  taste  in  architectural  matters,  howler,  was 
unimpeachable.  Her  additions  to  the  palace  were  worthy  its 
original  splendors. 

The  Bath-room  was  painted  in  groups  of  flowers  and  land- 
scapes intermingled,  on  a  ground  work  of  gold.  Louis  and  Be- 
lin  were  the  two  great  artists  to  whom  she  confided  this  work. 

In  the  Oratory,  the  Queen  had  employed  the  pencils  of  Phi- 
lippe de  Champagne,  Vouet,  Bourdon,  Stella,  Lahire,  Dorigny,  and 
Paerson,  to  retrace  on  its  walls  the  history  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 

The  Gallery,  in  a  retired  part  of  the  palace,  was  remarkable 
for  its  gilded  ceiling  by  Vouet,  and  its  inlaid  floor. 

In  this  gallery,  in  1650,  the  Queen  being  the  regent,  caused  to 
be  arrested  by  the  captain  of  her  guard,  Guitaut,  Mess,  de  Condej 
de  Conti,  and  de  Longueville,  princes  of  the  blood  royal. 

The  garden  at  this  period  contained  a  riding-school,  a  wide 
mall,  and  two  ponds— one  of  which  bearing  the  name  of  Rond 
d'Eau,  was  surrounded  by  a  thick  shrubbery,  so  large  as  to 

*  The  Princess  Palatine,  second  wife  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans.— J.  de  M. 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   fiLOOft  17 

allow  of  Louis  XITT,  the  last  of  the  French  falconers,  hawking 
magpies  and  pigeons  in  it. 

Besides  all  these  improvements,  the  left  wing  of  the  palace 
had  been  pulled  down  in  order  to  build  an  apartment  for  the 
Duke  d'Anjou,  brother  to  the  King — by  which  operation  the 
beautiful  gallery  which  Philippe  de  Champagne  had  consecrated 
to  the  glorification  of  the  Cardinal,  was  destroyed. 

In  1701,  the  Duke  died  of  a  fit  of  apoplexy. 

Louis  XIV  had  loved  his  brother  better  than  any  other 
man  on  earth  ;  yet  Madame  de  Maintenon  tells  us  that  two  hours 
after  the  King  had  heard  of  his  death,  she  found  her  illustrious 
husband  (for  LouiSyJike  his  brother,  had  made  a  mesalliance) 
singing  a  little  opera  air. 

From  this  hour  the  palace  became  the  property  of  the  prince, 
who.  fourteen  years  later,  was  destined  to  become  regent  of 
France 

We  alVknow,  more  or  less,  what  went  on  within  the  walls  of 
this  edifice  from  the  first  of  September,  1715,  to  the  25th 
December,  1793.  And  if  walls  have  ears,  as  the  proverb  says, 
their  susceptibility  must  have  been  strangely  shocked  at  the  dif- 
ference between  what  they  heard  during  the  reign  of  their  first 
possessor,  and  what  they  then  listened  to. 

Besides  ears,  the  walls  had  tongues — that  is,  by  the  medium  of 
the  Dukes  of  St.  Simon  and  Richelieu,  the  doings  of  this  period 
have  been  revealed — and  strange  doings  they  were. 

On  the  25th  December,  1723,  the  regent  being  rery  near  his 
mistress,  Madame  de  Phalaris,  feeling  his  head  heavy,  inclined  it 
upon  her  shoulder,  sighed,  and  died. 

Chirac,  his  physician,  had  insisted  on  bleeding  him  ;  but  the 
prince  had  put  off  the  operation  from  that  day  to  the  next.  So 
Man  proposes  and  God  disposes  ! 

In  the  midst  of  his  strange  pleasures  and  excesses,  the  re- 
gent, who  was,  after  all,  a  great  artist,  had  found  time  to  con- 
struct, under  his  own  superintendence  and  after  his  own  de- 
signs, confided  to  his  architect,  Oppenost,  a  magnificent  saloon, 
immediately  before  the  gallery  designed  by  Mansard.  These 
3 


18  INGENUE;  OR, 

two  buildings  extended  to  the  Rue  Richelieu,  and  were  on  the 
ground  now  occupied  by  the  Theatre  Frangais. 

Then  Louis  d'  Orleans,  the  devout  son  of  a  libertine  father,  a 
prince  who  caused  to  be  burned  all  the  pictures  of  Albano  and 
Titian,  in  his  father's  galleries,  (owing  to  the  nakedness  of  the 
figures,)  worth  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  which 
he  sacrificed  to  his  scruples — Louis  d'Orleans  set  to  work  to  lay 
out  the  garden  after  a  new  design. 

He  respected  the  great  alley  of  the  Cardinal,  but  cut  down 
the  wood  in  which  the  pigeons  and  magpies  had  so  long  resided. 

On  the  4th  of  February,  Louis  d'  Orleans  died,  at  the  abbey 
of  Ste.  Genevieve,  where  for  the  last  ten  years  he  had  taken  up 
his  abode,  perhaps  by  a  life  of  penance  and  self-denial  to  atone 
for  the  excesses  and  sins  of  his  father — "  the  happiest  of  his  fam- 
ily, where  so  many  are  unhappy,"  said  Marie  Leczinska,  (<  an- 
other victim  of  another's  vices,"  when  she  heard  of  his  prema- 
ture death.  This  prince  left  his  body  to  the  College  of  Surgeons 
for  dissection,  in  order  that  after  death  he  might  be  of  some  use 
to  his  fellow  creatures. 

He  was  succeeded  by  Louis  Philippe  d'Orleans,  whose  only 
celebrity  rests  on  his  two  marriages — the  first  with  the  sister  of 
the  Prince  de  Conti,  the  second  with  Madame  de  Montesson,  the 
aunt  of  Madame  de  Genlis. 

He  was,  besides,  the  father,  for  we  do  not  admit  the  sacrile- 
gious repudiation  of  his  son — of  that  Duke  de  Chartres,  celebra- 
ted under  the  name  of  Philippe  Egalite. 

For  several  years  preceding  his  death,  this  Duke  of  Orleans- 
then  the  husband  of  Madame  de  Montesson,  lived  in  retirement, 
either  at  Bagnolet  or  at  Villers-Cotterets— leaving  the  Palais 
Royal  entirely  to  his  son  Philippe  de  Chartres.  Then  it  was  that 
the  latter  conceived  the  idea  of  transforming  the  palace  of  the 
Cardinal  Duke  into  a  vast  bazaar. 

For  this  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  the  permission  of  the  King. 
This  was  granted  by  letters  patent  on  the  13th  of  August.  1784. 
When  the  news  reached  the  old  Duke,  that  his  son  was  turning 
his  palace  into  a  shop,  it  roused  him  from  the  selfish  apathy  and 


THE    KIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  19 

indifference  in  which  he  was  living.  Probably  some  of  the  cari- 
catures of  the  day,  which  still  exist,  representing  the  Duke  de 
Chartres  in  the  most  ignoble  disguises,  were  sent  to  him. 

"  Take  care,  my  son,"  said  the  old  prince,  "  public  opinion  will 
be  against  you  as  well  as  me." 

'•  I  don't  value  public  opinion  a  crown — a  double  crown,  I  mean.*' 

Now,  there  were  crowns  worth  three  francs,  and  crowns  worth 
Six— so  that  the  Duke  valued  public  opinion  at  six  francs ;  con- 
sequently it  was  decided  between  the  Duke  and  his  architect, 
whose  name  was  Louis,  that  the  Palace  should  change  aspects 
and  destination. 

The  old  Duke  died  about  a  year  after  it  had  been  so  decided, 
just  as  the  work  of  barbarism  was  beginning.  This  descendant 
of  Henri  IV,  rather  than  witness  the  degradation  of  his  family, 
hid  his  head  under  the  marble  of  his  yet  untainted  monument 

From  that  moment  there  was  no  further  obstacle  to  the 
Duke's  commercial  projects,  except  public  opinion  ;  and  we  have 
heard  from  his  own  lips  in  what  estimation  he  held  it.  The  first 
who  interfered  with  his  plans  were  the  proprietors  of  the  houses 
overlooking  the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal,  from  whom  he  entire- 
ly took  all  sun  and  light  They  went  to  law  with  the  royal  tres- 
passer, lost  their  cause,  and  were  forced  to  sell  their  houses  far 
under  their  original  value. 

1 1  is  next  opponents  were  the  frequenters  of  the  gardens  hith- 
erto open  to  the  public.  Every  man  who  has  the  habit  of  fre- 
quenting a  public  garden,  looks  upon  it  as  his  own  property  ;  and 
now  the  beautiful  trees,  the  smooth  lawns,  the  wide  gravel  walks, 
all  were  to  disappear  before  the  ruthless  innovator. 

Nothing  was  to  remain  but  a  small  plantation  of  lime  trees 
and  the  famous  tree  surnamed  the  tree  of  (Jraco\v. 

Before  proceeding  further,  let  us  state  what  was  the  history  of 
thin  famous  tree  of  Cracow,  whose  fall  in  178S,  caused  almost  as 
great  an  emeute  as  the  fall  of  the  trees  of  liberty  in  1850. 


INGENUE  J    OR, 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE      TREE      OP     CRACOW. 

THIS  tree  is  by  some  said  to  have  been  a  lime  tree,  and  others  a 
chestnut.  We  shall  not  attempt  to  decide  the  question.  Suffice  it 
to  say,  that  whatever  it  was,  it  was  a  much  larger  and  finer  tree 
than  any  of  those  which  surrounded  it.  In  1772,  when  Poland 
had  been  dismembered  by  Frederic  and  Catharine,  and  aban- 
doned by  Louis  XV,  great  interest  was  felt  in  Paris  in  her  strug- 
gles and  vicissitudes.  An  abbe,  who  had  a  correspondent  in  Cra- 
cow, and  who  appeared  to  be  very  well  posted  up  in  all  its  polit- 
ical and  military  movements,  used  to  assemble  with  the  friends 
of  Poland  in  the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and  under  this  tree 
read  to  eager  listeners  the  latest  news  he  had  received.  When 
there  was  no  news,  the  abbe,  who  was  a  great  tactician  and 
knew  the  country  well,  would  trace  on  the  sand,  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  those  around  him,  the  various  manoeuvres  of  the  army  of 
thirty  thousand  men,  with  which  he  was  going  to  settle  all  the 
difficulties  of  the  Poles. 

Now,  as  this  army  existed  only  in  his  imagination,  and  as  most 
of  his  auditors  did  not  know  the  name  of  the  abbe,  they  called 
him  '•  The  abbe  of  the  thirty  thousand  men."  and  the  tree  under 
•which  all  these  Polish  affairs  were  conducted,  the  "  Tree  of  Cra- 
cow." 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  left  the  tree  of  Cracow  standing,  and  it 
continued  to  be  a  favorite  place  of  political  meetings  in  1788,  as 
it  had  been  in  1772. 

Only,  in  1788  it  was  not  news  from  Poland  that  brought  peo- 
ple together,  but  news  of  France  and  Versailles. 

With  the  nature  of  thfediscussion.  the  aspect  of  the  men  had 
changed,  almost  as  much  Jrs  the  aspect  of  the  surrounding  objects. 

One  great  material  change  had  been  effected  by  the  construe- 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  21 

tion  of  a  circus,  and  another  by  the  camp  of  the  Tartars.  The 
Duke  knew  how  to  make  good  use  of  his  ground. 

The  circus  was  in  the  form  of  a  parallelogram,  which  in  its 
extent  had  destroyed  the  lawns  laid  out  by  the  devout  Louis  of 
Orleans.  Even  before  it  was  finished,  a  portion  of  this  circus 
was  occupied  as  a  reading-room,  kept  by  a  man  named  Girardin, 
the  first  who  ever  opened  a  reading-room  or  circulating  library ; 
therefore  deserving  of  mention. 

A  club,  called  the  Club  of  the  Socialists,  occupied  another  part. 
This  club  was  specially  frequented  by  abolitionists,  reformers 
and  philanthropists.  The  principal  portion  was  possessed  by  a 
troup  of  "  full  tin  banquet"  or  merry-andrews,  who,  as  in  the 
time  of  Thespis.  gave  representations  twice  a  day  in  the  open  air. 

The  circus  was  like  an  immense  bower,  entirely  covered  as  it 
was  with  trees,  shrubs  and  parasitical  plants,  creeping  over  lat- 
tice-work. The  twelve  Doric  columns  which  surrounded  it  did 
not,  it  is  true,  harmonize  with  this  pastoral  construction  ;  but 
those  were  the  days  of  contrasts  and  oppositions,  and  this  one 
was  scarcely  noticed  among  the  rest. 

As  to  the  Camp  of  the  Tartars,  we  will  take  Mercier's  descrip- 
tion of  it,  from  his  "  Picture  of  Paris  :" 

"  The  Athenians,"  says  he, "  raised  temples  to  their  Phryneas; 
it  is  here  that  we  come  to  find  ours.  Here,  too,  speculators, 
usurers  and  stock-jobbers  come,  three  times  a  day,  with  news 
from  the  money  market,  and  with  discussions  about  filthy  specu- 
lations almost  as  vile  as  prostitution  itself.  The  coffee-houses  are 
turned  into  exchanges.  Watch  well  the  faces  before  you ;  see 
the  sordid  smile  of  successful  usury,  or  watch  the  workings  of 
disappointed  roguery.  This  place  is  like  the  box  of  Pandora, 
carved  and  chisscled  most  beautifully  without,  but  we  all  know 
what  was  within  this  fatal  box,  confided  to  the  statue  animated 
by  Vulcan.  Your  modern  Sardanapaluses,  your  modern  Lacul- 
luses,  live  at  the  Palais  Royal,  in  apartments  that  would  be  en- 
vied by  the  Roman  Consuls  or  the  Assyrian  King." 

The  "  Camp  of  the  Tartars"  was,  then,  the  abode  of  knavery 


22  INGKNUE  ;    OR, 

and  prostitution — was,  in  fact,  what,  until  1828,  existed  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  under  the  name  of  "  wooden  galleries." 

But  the  greatest  change  of  all,  in  the  aspect  of  things,  had 
been  effected  by  the  political  earthquake  which  now  threatened 
to  shake  all  ranks,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  to  their  very 
foundations. 

Now,  the  political  assemblies  were  palpitating  with  vital  in- 
terest to  all,  and  before  the  news  from  Versailles,  all  else  seemed 
to  sink  into  insignificance. 

Still,  in  the  midst  of  these  stirring  doings,  some  calm  and  tran- 
quil individuals  might  be  seen,  like  memorials  of  former  days 
serenely  pursuing  some  poetical  conception,  or  earnestly  discuss-  • 
ing  some  newly  published  work. 

Thus,  far  away  from  the  crowd,  round  the  tree  of  Cracow,  all 
impatient  to  hear  the  news  from  the  "  Nouvelles  &  la  Main,"  the 
"  Journal  de  Paris,"  or  the  "  Lunette  Philosophique  et  Literaire," 
the  gentle  reader,  if  he  is  following  us,  will  perceive  walking  in 
a  tranquil  side-alley,  two  men,  both  nearly  of  an  age,  between 
thirty-five  and  thirty-six.  One  wears  the  uniform  with  pink 
facings,  of  the  Noailles  dragoons,  whilst  the  other  has  white 
facings,  and  belongs  to  the  Queen's  dragoons.  Are  these  officers 
speaking  of  military  tactics  ?  No — they  are  two  poets,  talking 
of  poetry— two  lovers,  talking  of  love. 

Be  they  what  they  may,  they  are  handsome,  elegant  and  high- 
bred men,  charming  types  of  the  military  aristocracy.  At  this 
period  hair  powder  was  in  the  wane.  The  imitators  of  the  Eng- 
lish and  the  Americans,  the  progressionists,  no  longer  wore  it ; 
but  our  two  young  officers  had  their  hair  most  tastefully  ar- 
ranged, according  to  the  older  fashion. 

"  And  so,  my  dear  Berlin,"  said  the  officer  who  wore  the  uni- 
form of  the  Queen's  dragoons,  "  it  is  really  true  that  you  are  go- 
ing to  leave  the  army,  and  retire  into  exile,  at,  Heaven  save  the 
mark  !  San  Domingo  ?" 

"  Not  to  San  Domingo,  Evariste — you  are  mistaken.  It  is  to 
Cythera,  that  I  retire." 

"ToCythera?" 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  23 

"  Yes.    Do  you  not  understand  ?  " 

"  No,  upon  my  honor." 

"  Have  you  not  read  the  third  book  of  my  work  on  Love  ?  " 

u  I  read  all  you  write,  my  dear  Captain." 

i(  Then  you  must  remember  some  verses " 

"  Addressed  to  Eucharis,  or  to  Oatillia  ?  " 

"  Poor  Eucharis,  my  dear  friend,  exists  no  longer.  I  have 
paid  my  tribute  to  her  memory  in  tears  and  rhyme ;  now  my 
poetry  is  addressed  to  Catillia,  only." 

"  Which,  then,  are  the  verses  to  which  you  allude  ?  " 

"To  these: 

'  Go— and  fear  not  I'll  forget 
The  happy  moment  when  we  met, 
When  full  of  love's  tweet  madness,  we 
Vowed  eternal  constancy ; 
While  our  lips  in  tender  bliss, 
Sealed  the  oath  with  many  a  kiar' 

"Well?" 

"  Well— I  am  going  to  keep  my  vow." 

"  What,  is  Catillia,  then -" 

"  A  charming  creole,  of  San  Domingo,  my  dear  Parny,  who 
sailed  a  year  ago  for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 

<;  Whom,  to  use  a  regimental  phrase,  you  are  going  to  join  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  am  going  first,  as  we  say,  to  join,  and  then  to  mar- 
ry, this  child  of  the  equator.  In  San  Domingo,  I  shall  imagine 
myself  in  my  own  beautiful  isle  of  France ;  in  San  Domingo 
there  is  the  same  unclouded  sky.  the  same  warm  sun,  the  same 
luxuriant  vegetation.  Yes — I  shall  be  like  a  lover,  who,  not  pos- 
sessing the  original,  still  clings  to  the  portrait  of  her  ho  loves." 

';  And  when  once  you  are  there,  you  will  forget,  in  the  love  of 
the  fair  Catillia,  all  your  friends  you  leave  here  behind  you." 

"  Never,  my  dear  E  varistc  ;  I  am  faithful  in  friendship,  as  in 
love.  Besides,  if  I  could  forget,  is  not  your  fame  constantly 
there  to  remind  me  of  you  ?  Your  elegies  have  wings,  and  the 
name  of  Eleanor  will  come  to  me  like  an  echo  from  that  brilliant 
Paris  which  has  received  me  so  well,  yet  which  I  leave  with  such 
delight."  B« 


24  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  Then  go  you  must  ?  " 

"Yes;  my  sails  are  set,  and  I  have  but  to  invoke  the  protec- 
tion of  the  star  of  love." 

"  Venus,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  a  third  voice  ;  "  Venus,  your 
patron  saint." 

"  Ah !  here  you  are,  my  dear  Florian  !"  exclaimed  the  two 
officers,  turning  round  and  extending  each  a  hand  to  the  new 
comer. 

"  Accept  my  congratulations,"  said  Parny,  "  on  your  admission 
into  the  Academic." 

"  And  mine  on  your  delicious  pastoral  of  Estelle,"  said  Bertin. 

"  You  are  right,  after  all,  de  revenir  &  vos  moutons,"  exclaimed 
Parny.  "  We  want  your  sheep  and  your  shepherds,  to  make  us 
tolerate  the  wolves  by  which  we  are  surrounded.  Bertin  is 
afraid  of  them  ;  he  is  going  to  leave  us." 

"  It  was  not  really  a  mere  poetical  adieu,  but  a  bonaf.de  prose 
farewell,  then,  Captain,  in  your  last  publication  1 " 

"  The  adieus  were  real,  my  friends." 

"  And  where  do  you  imagine  he.  is  going  ?  To  the  Antilles — to 
San  Domingo.  He  is  going  to  plant  coffee  and  refine  sugar 
whilst  God  knows  whether  we  shall  be  allowed  time  or  ground 
to  plant  even  cabbages.  Whom  are  you  looking  at  ?  " 

"  Why,  at  Rivarol,  for  it  surely  is  he  ! " 

"Yes— but  what  then?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  two  words  to  say  to  him." 

"  What — another  quarrel !  You  are,  then,  the  same  as  ever — 
always  sword  in  hand  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  drawn  my  sword  for  the  last  three  years." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  getting  out  of  practice  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  I  should  have  to  draw  it  now,  may  I  rely  on  you  V 

u  Of  course  you  may." 

The  three  young  men  now  proceeded  towards  the  place  where 
sat  Rivarol,  the  author  of  a  work  called  the  "  Little  Almanach  of 
Great  Men,"  of  which  the  second  edition  had  just  appeared,  and 
which  was  making  even  a  greater  sensation  than  the  first.  Ri- 
varol was  listlessly  lolling  upon  two  chairs,  apparently  perfectly 


THE   FIRST   DAY3   OT   BLOOD.  25 

unconscious  of  what  was  going  on  around  him,  although  his  face, 
beaming  with  vivacity  and  intelligence,  indicated  the  possession 
in  an  eminent  degree  of  that  ready  wit  for  which  the  French  are 
distinguished. 

At  intervals,  as  though  to  chronicle  what  he  heard,  he  wrote  a 
few  words  rapidly  in  a  memorandum  book. 

When  the  young  officers  and  their  friends  began  to  approach 
him,  he  appeared  not  to  imagine  that  they  were  going  to  speak  to 
him,  and  began  to  write  most  earnestly.  But  soon  they  were  so 
close  that  their  shadow  was  thrown  on  the  paper,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  raise  his  eyes. 

Florian  bowed  courteously  ;  Parny  and  Bertin,  slightly.  Ri- 
rarol  merely  changed  his  position,  but  did  not  bow. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  interrupt  your  studies,"  said  Florian  ;  "  but 
I  have  a  brief  explanation  to  request  of  you." 

"From  me,  sir?  You  are  a  gentleman  in  waiting,  I  believe," 
said  Rivarol,  speaking  in  a  sarcastic  tone ;  "  does  the  explanation 
regard  your  master,  the  Duke  de  Pentlidvre  ?" 

''  It  does  not,  sir — it  concerns  myself  alone." 

"  I  am  all  attention." 

"  You  did  me  the  honor,  sir,  of  inserting  my  name  in  the  first 
edition  of  your  Almanac." 

"  That  is  perfectly  true,  sir." 

"  Will  you  allow  me,  then,  to  inquire  why  you  left  it  out  of 
the  second  edition?" 

"  Because,  in  the  interval  between  the  first  and  second  editions, 
you  were  made  an  Academician ;  and  a  member  of  the  Acade- 
mic, however  obscure  he  may  have  been,  can  no  longer  claim  to 
be  unknown.  Mine  you  know  is  a  perfectly  philanthropic  book 
— its  object  is  to  bring  before  the  public  authors,  geniuses,  great 
men,  in  fact,  as  yet  unknown  to  fame.  Now,  three  of  my  clients 
think  they  had  better  right  than  you  to  enter  the  ranks  of  the 
learned  Academic." 

"  Three  only  !  who  may  they  be  ?" 

"  Three  distinguished  poets,  sir.  One  has  written  an  acrostic, 
the  other  a  distich,  and  the  other  the  theme  of  a  song,  promising 
4 


26  INGENUE  J    OB, 

the  song  hereafter— for  which,  having  the  theme,  the  world  can 
wait." 

"  And  supposing  I  were  to  ask  a  charitable  notice  for  some 
friends  of  mine  ?" 

"I  should  be  obliged  unwillingly  to  refuse  you,  M.  de  Florian  ; 
I  have  my  own  charities." 

"  My  protege  has  made  a  stanza  of  four  lines." 

"  The  devil  he  has  !" 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  them  ?" 

"  Of  all  things — you  recite  so  well,  you  know,  Monsieur  de 
Florian." 

"  I  need  not  say  to  whom  these  lines  were  addressed  ;  you  are 
clever  enough  to  divine,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  will  try ;  pray  go  on." 

And  Florian  recited  as  follows : 

"  Here  lies  poor  Ponto,  by  his  mistress  mourned, 
A  dog  by  all  your  qualities  adorned — 
He  snapped,  and  snarled,  and  growled  at  every  breath, 
And  was,  at  last,  most  justly  whipped  to  death." 

"  Capital,  M.  de  Florian,  capital !     Are  these  verses  by  you  ?'• 

"  What  would  you  say,  if  they  were  mine,  Monsieur  de 
Rivarol '?" 

"  Say,  my  dear  sir  ?  Why.  I  should  ask  you  to  be  kind  enough 
to  repeat  them." 

"  To  repeat  them  ?  for  what  purpose  ?" 

"In  order  that  I  might  take  them  down,  and  insert  them  in 
my  third  edition.  To  make  merit  known,  sir,  is  my  only  obr 
ject.  This  is  all  I  pretend— not  to  personal  talent,  oh  dear,  no  ! 
I  am  merely  the  steel  which  sharpens  the  knife — I  am  not  the 
knife  itself.  I  merely  give  point  and  publicity  to  other  people's 
wit,  not  to  my  own.  I  have  none,  sir,  and  no  pretensions." 

Florian  bit  his  lips.  He  had  a  slippery  adversary  to  deal  with, 
and  he  knew  it. 

"And  now,  sir,  I  have  still  something  to  say.  The  article 
about  me  in  your  work  displeases  and  offends  me." 


«  THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  27 

.  "  Impossible  !  it  contains  but  three  lines." 

"  It  is  nevertheless  as  I  say." 

"Displeasing  to  you?  is  it,  indeed?  Is  it  the  spirit  of  the 
article  of  which  you  disapprove  ? 

"No." 

«  Is  it  the  wording  1" 

"  Nor  the  wording." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?" 

"  It  is  in  the  facts  it  advances." 

'•  Oh,  if  it  is  in  the  facts,  Monsieur  do  Florian,  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  M.  Champenctz,  my  associate  editor,  furnished 
the  facts.  There  he  is,  yonder,  talking  with  Metra ;  you  can 
speak  to  him  if  you  please."  And  Rivarol  began  again  to  write. 

Florian  looked  at  his  two  friends,  and  all  laughed. 

u  Come,"  said  Florian,  "  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you,  Monsieur 
de  Rivarol,  you  are  a  man  of  sense  and  wit ;  I  forgive  you,  and 
withdraw  my  verses." 

<;  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Monsieur  de  Florian,"  said  Rivarol,  with  a 
comic  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  that  you  cannot  withdraw  your 
couplets  from  the  public.  They  are  here  on  my  memorandum 
book,  destined  to  be  published  to  the  world  ;  but  if  you  are  in 
want  of  a  couplet,  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  supplying  you 
with  another,  perhaps  equal  in  merit  to  yours." 

"  Ay,  but  are  they  addressed  to  the  same  person  as  mine  ?" 

"  They  are.  sir,  they  are ;  for  they  were  sent  to  Champcnetz 
and  to  me.  They  are  the  composition  of  M.  Camille  Desmou- 
lins— his  first  production,  and  promise  well." 

"  I  am  all  attention." 

u  You  must  know,  in  order  to  understand  these  verses,  that 
the  world  does  me  and  M.  Champenetz  the  honor  of  doubting 
our  nobility,  just  as  it  does  your  genius.  It  even  goes  so  far  as 
to  say  that  my  father  was  an  inn-keeper  at  Bagnols,  and  the 
mother  of  Champenetz  a  servant  of  all  work  in  some  other  place. 
Now  for  my  couplets  : 

"  In  the  hotel  where  two  great  wit*  reside, 
The  guest*  are  always  bounteously  supplied — 


28  INGENUE  J    OB, 

For,  in  the  place  of  vulgar  cooks  and  grooms, 
'Tis  Champenetz  cooks,  while  Rivarol  sweeps  the  rooms." 

It  was  impossible  to  feel  angry  with  such  a  man  ;  therefore, 
bursting  into  a  hearty  laugh,  the  three  friends  each  extended  a 
hand  to  Rivarol.  He  took  them,  with  a  sly  look  and  a  sarcastic 
sinile  peculiar  to  himself. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  crowd  had  increased  round  the  tree  of 
Cracow,  and  by  the  noise  and  excitement,  it  appeared  that  some 
important  piece  of  intelligence  was  being  discussed. 

The  friends,  following  the  impulsion  of  the  crowd,  drew  near 
to  the  tree  of  Cracow. 

Rivarol  resumed  his  writing;  not,  however,  until  he  had  ex- 
changed a  significant  glance  with  Champenetz,  who  had  been 
anxiously  watching  the  proceedings  of  his  associate  and  the  three 
young  men. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE     N  E  W  8  -  M  0  N  GER  8. 

METRA,  the  man  alluded  to  by  Rivarol  as  talking  to  Cham- 
penetz, was  one  of  the  celebrities  of  the  day.  Was  it  on  account 
of  his  wit  ?  No — for  it  was  not  remarkable.  Was  it  for  his 
birth  ?  No — for  that  was  obscure.  It  was  simply  for  his  news. 
Metra  was  the  great  news-monger  of  the  day.  He  had  conceived 
the  extraordinary  idea  of  publishing  at  Neuville,  on  the  Rhine,  a 
paper  containing  all  the  Paris  news,  scandalous,  political  and 
fashionable— or  courtly,  for  the  court  was  in  those  days  the  only 
fashionable  class.  This  he  published  under  the  head  of  "  Secret 
Correspondence,"  the  source  of  which  was  not  known. 

Who  could  tell  the  real  sex  of  the  Chevalier  or  Chevaliere  d'Eon, 
to  whom  the  government  had  just  issued  orders  always  to  appear 
in  woman's  clothes,  and  who  wore  the  cross  of  St.  Louis  on  her 
neck-handkerchief?  Metra.  Who  knew  and  told  all  the  details 


«.         THE    F1BST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  29 

•  •  ;  ••  .  ' 

of  the  suppers  of  the  famous  Grunod  de  la  Reynifcre,  as  if  he  had 
been  one  of  his  guests  !  Who  told  how  this  great  culinarj 
artist,  laying  aside  the  stew-pan  for  the  pen,  had  just  written  a 
parody  on  Racine's  sublime  version  of  Athalia  ?  Metra.  Who 
know  the  latest  eccentricity  of  the  Marquis  de  Brannoy,  the  most 
eccentric  man  of  his  age?  Metra.  The  ancient  Romans  for 
three  stir<v.^i\c  n-nturies  preeted  each  other  in  the  forum  with, 
qui  nuri  fecit  Africa? — (What  news  from  Africa?)  But  the 
French  for  three  years  saluted  each  other  with,  "  What  is  the  last 
news  from  Metra  ?" 

News  was  the  great  object  of  this  period.  There  are  certain 
epochs  in  the  history  of  nations  when  the  whole  population 
appears  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  feverish  restlessness ;  when  on 
the  point  of  abandoning  the  beaten  track  trodden  by  their  ances- 
tors, they  are  uncertain  yet  of  their  future  path,  and  though  they 
hope  and  aspire,  still  they  feel  that  between  that  future  path  and 
themselves  there  is  some  deep  and  dark  precipice. 

Then  it  is,  that  impracticable  theories  arise — then  it  is  that 
results  impossible  to  attain  are  seriously  contemplated  and  dis- 
cussed ;  tl irii  it  is  that  a  nation,  like  a  patient  who  feels  himself 
dying,  sends  away  the  physicians  and  follows  the  counsels  of  em- 
pirics—not  seeking  a  restoration  to  health  in  rational  science 
but  asking  it  from  the  impostures  of  quackery.  So  the  nation 
sought  for  happiness  in  dreams,  and  not  in  realities. 

Then,  to  enlighten  with  false  glare  this  chaos,  from  which  the 
light  of  day  is  receding — to  soothe  the  fevered  imagination  of  the 
populace — appear  such  men  of  mystery  as  Swedenborg,  the  Count 
of  St.  Germain,  Cagliostro ;  then  it  is  that  genius  brings  suddenly 
before  the  world  strange  and  mysterious  powers,  unaccountable, 
fearful,  almost  supernatural  in  their  effects.  Franklin  comes  with 
electricity,  Montgolfier  with  his  balloon,  Mesiner  with  his  mag- 
netism. 

Then  man.  still  in  the  delirum  which  precedes  the  destruc- 
tion of  a  nation  as  it  does  death  in  the  individual,  imagines  that 
some  grand  result  is  to  arise  from  this  insight  into  the  eternal 
mysteries,  lie  thinks,  in  his  presumption,  that  he  has  set  his 


30  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

foot  on  the  first  step  of  the  ladder  which  leads  to  the  heavens 
above  him. 

But  it  is  not  to  heaven  that  this  strange,  unearthly  state  of 
feverish  exaltation  will  lead ;  it  is  to  a  terrestial  revolution.  The 
hour  of  transfiguratoin  draws  nigh.  From  this  revolution  the 
people  shall  indeed  come  forth  purified,  triumphant,  free ;  but 
not  until  they  shall  have  passed  through  an  agony  wherein,  like 
the  Saviour,  they  shall  sweat  blood  and  bear  the  cross. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  popular  mind  at  the  period  of  which 
we  write. 

Like  the  bird  which  takes  its  flight  far  away  and  is  lost  in  the 
clouds,  but  returns  all  shuddering  and  trembling  to  earth — for 
instead  of  reaching  heaven,  it  has  encountered  only  its  thunders 
•^so  did  the  people  in  these  times  rush  like  madmen  through  the 
streets ;  group  themselves  together  ;  interrogate  each  other,  seek- 
ing some  unknown,  unforeseen  event  which  should  suddenly  calm 
all  the  agitation  around.  Then,  when  no  reply  came  to  their 
inquiry  of  "  what  news  ?"  these  groups  would  disperse,  and  madly 
with  distended  eye-balls  and  giddy  steps,  resume  their  restless 
wanderings. 

Metra,  therefore,  was  one  of  the  most  important  personages 
of  the  day  ;  for  he  was  ever  ready  to  reply  to  the  universal  de- 
sire to  interrogate,  which  seemed  possessed  by  all.  His  news 
was  not  always  important  in  its  tenor,  and  never  in  its  results. 
(The  people  had  to  work  out  their  own  salvation.)  But  it  took 
the  keen  edge  off  the  greedy  appetites  of  the  moment. 

Now,  on  this  day,  the  24th  of  August,  1788,  Metra,  the  news- 
monger, was  of  more  importance  than  ever.  For  some  time  it 
had  been  felt  that  the  govermental  ropes  were  so  strained,  that 
hourly  they  might  be  expected  to  snap  in  twain. 

The  ministry  now  in  power  was  a  most  unpopular  one  ;  it  was 
that  of  Monsieur  Lomenie  de  Brienne,  which  had  succeeded  that 
of  M.  de  Calonne,  whose  predecessor  had  been  M.  de  Necker. 

But.  whatever  news  Metra  had  received,  he  did  not  appear  dis- 
posed to  communicate  ;  for,  instead  of  talking  to  those  by  whom 
he  was  surrounded,  they  were  talking  to  him. 


THE    FIRST    DATS    OF    BLOOD.  31 

"  Monsieur  Metra,"  said  a  young  woman,  wearing  what  was 
called  a  dress  d  la  Lerite,  and  a  large  round  hat  covered  with 
flowers — having  in  her  hand  a  long  gold-headed  cane ;  "  Mon- 
sieur Metra,  is  it  true  that  the  Queen,  in  her  late  consultation 
with  Leonard  her  hair  dresser  and  Mile.  Berbin  her  milliner, 
not  only  decided  on  the  recall  of  Necker,  but  also  undertook  to 
notify  him  of  it  herself?" 

"  Ah !  ah  !"  said  Metra,  as  if  he  were  being  told  news. 

"  Monsieur  Metra,"  said  a  young  man  in  olive  coat  with  steel 
buttons,  and  a  white  waiscoat  bound  with  colored  calico,  the  last 
caprice  of  fasion ;  "  Monsieur  Metra,  is  it  true  that  the  Count 
d'Artois  said  to  the  King  that  if  M.  de  Brienne  did  not  send  in 
his  resignation,  he  would  himself  go  to  the  arohiepiscopal  palace 
and  ask  him  for  it  ?" 

"  Eh !  Eh !"  replied  Metra,  neither  affirming  nor  denying. 

"Monsieur  Metra,"  said  a  man  of  the  populace,  dressed  in 
worn-out  knee  breeches,  with  a  torn  jacket  and  a  dirty  shirt ; 
"  is  it  true  that  when  Monsieur  Sieges  wag  asked  what  was  the 
tiers  elat,  he  replied,  '  nothing  for  the  present,  everything  for  the 
future  ?," 

"  Oh !  oh !"  said  Metra,  as  though  he  meant  to  indicate  that 
in  his  opinion,  if  M.  Sieges  had  made  .that  reply,  he  had  said  the 
truth." 

Then  came  a  chorus— Metra,  gives  us  some  news !  News, 
Metra,  news ! 

"  News,  citizens,"  said  a  squeaking  voice  in  the  crowd,  "  news, 
citizens !  If  you  want  news,  I  can  give  you  some." 

This  voice  had  such  a  singular  intonation  that  every  one  turned 
round  to  see  whence  it  came. 

The  man  who  spoke  was  between  forty  and  forty-six  years  of 
age.  He  was  not  more  than  five  feet  high ;  his  crooked  legs  were 
thrust  into  striped  blue  and  white  stockings;  his  shoes  were 
down  at  the  heel,  and  tied  with  string  instead  of  ribbon.  He 
wore  a  shovel  hat,  and  his  coat  was  shabby  and  full  of  holes, 
through  which  could  be  seen  glimpses  of  a  very  dirty  shirt.  He 


32  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

had  no  cravat,  and  his  shirt  being  without  a  collar,  left  uncovered 
a  short,  thick  neck,  full  of  muscles,  like  twisted  cords. 

His  features  are  deserving  a  minute  description.  His  face  was 
thin  and  long ;  all  the  features  we're  crooked.  It  was  marked 
with  large  blotches  of  red  and  yellow,  like  the  skin  of  a  leopard. 
The  eyes,  large  and  prominent,  were  full  of  insolence  and  defiance ; 
and  they  had  a  habit  of  winking,  like  those  of  a  bird  of  night 
exposed  to  the  light  of  day.  The  mouth  was  large  and  shaped 
like  that  of  a  viper,  and  expressed  a  constant  irritability  and 
disdain. 

The  head  was  large  and  round — the  long  hair,  uncombed  and 
unkempt,  was  gathered  behind  into  a  knot,  fastened  by  a  leather 
thong ;  and  a  large  hand,  with  black  dirty  nails,  was  frequently 
passed  over  it,  as  though  to  compress  the  brain  beneath.  The 
man  could  not  be  looked  on  without  a  shudder. 

Seen  from  above,  at  a  distance,  the  head  of  this  man  was  full 
of  expression.  It  was,  like  Alexander's,  habitually  inclined  on 
the  left  shoulder,  and  revealed  great  firmness,  violent  passions, 
and  great  strength.  What  most  astonished  you  was  the  utter 
want  of  harmony  in  the  whole.  Each  feature  appeared  to  belong 
to  a  different  face,  and  to  express  a  distinct  passion — as  though  the 
evil  passions  disseminated  over  a  multitude,  were  all  concentrated 
in  the  heart  of  this  one  man. 

At  the  sight  of  this  man,  all  those  who  were  distinguished  and 
refined  amongst  the  crowd,  felt  an  instinctive  shudder.  Yet  the 
feeling  he  in  spired  was  twofold;  for,  though  his  aspect  was  at  first 
repellant,  it  aroused  a  feverish  curiosity,  which  formed  a  kind  of 
horrible  fascination. 

And  this  man  promised  news !  If  he  had  offered  anything 
else,  half  of  those  present  would  have  fled ;  but  news  was  the 
most  precious  thing  to  all — so  no  one  moved  away.  But  they 
waited  in  silence ;  none  dared  to  speak. 

"You  want  news,"  said  this  man,  at  length;  "here  is  my 
budget :  Monsieur  Lomenie  de  Brienne  has  sold  his  resignation." 

'•  Sold  his  resignation  !  how  do  you  mean  ?"  exclaimed  several 
voices 


THE    FIRST   DAY'S   OF    BLOOD.  83 

"I  mean  that  he  has  been  bought,  if  you  like  it  better— bribed 
to  resign,  and  at  a  pretty  price  too.  But  so  it  is  in  this  our  belle 
France.  Ministers  are  bribed  to  accept  their  posts,  bribed  to  stay 
in  them,  bribed  to  resign ;  and  who  pays  these  bribes  ?  Why,  the 
K LI.'.  Ay,  but,  who  pays  the  King?  Why,  you,  me,  all  of  us. 
So,  Monsieur  de  Urienne  has  sent  in  his  account  and  been  paid. 
He  is  to  be  Cardinal.  All  right — he  has  as  much  right  to  the 
dignity  as  his  predecessor  in  ecclesiastical  honors,  Dubois.  His 
nephew  is  to  be  Coadjutor  of  the  Bishopric  of  Sens.  lie  has  not 
the  age  required,  but  who  cares  ?  His  niece — why  not  provide 
for  the  niece,  when  they  have  provided  for  the  nephew  ?  His 
niece  will  be  one  of  the  queen's  household.  As  for  the  Cardinal 
himself,  he  has,  during  his  ministry  of  one  year,  feathered  hia 
nest  with  a  few  millions,  besides  which  he  leaves  his  brother 
Minister  of  War,  after  having  made  him  Governor  of  Provence 
at  the  same  time.  So,  you  see,  I  was  right  to  say  that  he  had 
sold  his  resignation." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  this ?  Where  did  you  hear  it?"  asked 
Metro,  who  never  asked  anything  before,  but  always  told. 

"How do  I  know  it?  Why,  from  the  courtiers.  Where  did 
I  hear  it  ?  Why,  at  court,  to  be  sure.  I  belong  to  the  Court." 

And  the  horrible  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  breeches 
pockets,  grinned  with  a  grotesque  conceit,  while  he  balanced  him- 
self to  and  fro  with  assumed  importance  and  insolence. 

"  You  belong  to  the  Court?"  murmured  the  crowd. 

((  Does  this  astonish  you?"  said  the  monster.  "In  the  moral 
world  things  are  ordained  exactly  contrary  to  what  they  are  in 
the  physical  world — for  strength  leans  upon  weakness,  genius 
upon  folly.  Was  not  Beaumarchais  a  dependant  of  Mcsdames 
the  daughter*  of  Loui*  XV;)  Mably  of  the  Cardinal  de  Teucin  ; 
Champfort  of  the  Prince  of  Conde  ;  Thulliers  of  Mousiene ;  and 
did  not  Laclos,  Mme.  de  Genlis  and  Brissot  form  part  of  the 
household  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans?  What  is  there  so  wonder- 
ful in  my  belonging  also  to  the  Court  ?  I  flatter  myself  I  am  as 
good,  if  not  better,  than  those  I  have  named." 
5 


34  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"  Then  we  may  consider  the  resignation  of  the  minister  as  cer- 
tain?" 

"Official." 

"And  who  succeeds  him?" 

"  Who  ?  Why,  why  the  Genovese,  as  the  King  calls  him— the 
Charlatan,  as  the  queen  calls  him — the  banker,  as  the  princes  call 
him — the  father  of  the  people,  as  the  people  call  him,  who  call 
everybody  father,  because  they  have  never  known  a  real  parent." 

And  a  Satanic  sneer  distorted  the  mouth  of  the  speaker. 

"  You  are  not  for  Necker,  then  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  all  for  Necker.  The  country  wants 
such  men  as  Necker.  What  an  ovation  is  being  prepared  for 
him !  What  allegories  are  being  got  ready  for  him  !  I  saw  one 
yesterday  in  which  he  is  represented  as  bringing  back  Plenty  and 
driving  Poverty  and  Confusion  before  him.  Is  not  his  portrait 
everywhere  ?— in  all  the  shops,  on  snuff-boxes,  on  coat-buttons  ? 
Is  not  the  new  street  leading  to  the  Exchange  to  be  called  after 
him  ?  Are  there  not  as  many  medals  in  honor  of  Necker  as  there 
were  of  De  Witt,  who,  however^  ended  by  being  hanged  ?  I  am 
all  for  Necker — no  one  but  Necker.  Hurrah  for  the  King,  the 
Parliament  and  M.  Necker !" 

"  And  you  positively  affirm  that  Monsieur  Necker  is  the  suc- 
cessor of  Monsieur  de  Brienne?"  exclaimed  a  ^oice,  in  a  peremp- 
tory tone. 

Public  attention  instantly  concentrated  itself  on  the  new 
speaker. 

He  was  not  less  worthy  of  interest  than  the  person  who  had 
already  occupied  so  much  of  the  people's  time. 

This  second  comer  presented  in  one  respect  a  strange  contrast 
to  the  first.  He  was  of  Herculean  proportions.  He  was  dressed 
with  an  elegance  and  taste  which  displayed  .to  advantage  the 
admirable  proportions  of  his  figure. 

He  might  have  passed  for  a  model  of  the  statue  of  strength — 
only  the  face  appeared  to  have  been  destroyed  by  lightning.  It 
was  one  mass  of  deformity.  The  small-pox  had  so  ploughed  up 
the  features,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  one  could  discover  any 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  35 

vestige  of  them.  The  nose  wms  flattened,  the  eye  scarce  visible, 
whilst  the  thick  lips  stretched  almost  from  ear  to  ear.  This 
mutilated  colossus,  this  imperfect  combination  of  man  and  wild 
beast,  presented  a  horrible  personification  of  sensuality  and 
energy. 

These  two  men,  both  unique  specimens  of  deformity,  stood  face 
to  face — the  few  who  had  separated  them  having  withdrawn 
instinctively  from  their  contact. 

There  they  stood,  the  giant  frowning  on  the  dwarf,  the  dwarf 
smiling  on  the  giant. 

In  an  instant  Berlin,  Parny,  Florian,  Rivarol,  Champenetz.  and 
even  Metra,  were  forgotten — the  general  interest  concentrated  on 
these  two  men,  both  of  whom,  however,  were  utterly  unknown 
to  all. 

The  anglo-mania  then  prevalent  in  France  had  brought  wagera 
into  fashion.  Now  it  was  evident  that  of  these  two  men,  the  one 
could  crush  the  other  at  one  blow ;  yet  if  they  had  fought,  there 
would  have  been  as  many  bets  on  one  side  as  the  other.  Many 
would  have  relied  on  the  strength  of  the  lion,  and  more  on  the 
venom  of  the  serpent 

"  So,"  repeated  the  giant  in  the  midst  of  the  general  silence, 
"you  affirm  that  Necker  is  the  successor  of  de  Brienne?" 

- 1  do." 

'•And  you  are  rejoiced  at  this  change?" 

u  And  I  rejoice  in  the  change." 

"  Probably  not  because  it  exalts  the  former,  but  because  it 
destroys  the  latter — for  in  certain  circumstances  to  destroy  is  to 
build." 

"  My  sentiment  exactly." 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  the  people,  then  ?" 

"And  you?" 

"  I  ?  I  am  an  enemy  of  the  aristocracy." 

"  Well — that  is  the  same  thingJ" 

"  Yes— to  begin  the  great  work  of  regeneration  it  may  be  the 
same  thing ;  but  not  to  accomplish  it." 

'•  Well — let  us  begin  with  the  beginning." 
C* 


36  INGEXUE  J    OR, 

'  Where  do  you  dine  to-day,  citizen  ?" 

"  With  you,  citizen,  if  you  please." 

"  Agreed,  citizen — come  along." 

And  the  giant  offered  the  dwarf  an  arm,  which  the  dwarf  had 
great  trouble  in  attaining ;  and,  linked  arm  in  arm,  they  with- 
drew together,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  the  crowd 
than  if  there  had  been  none — leaving  it  to  discuss,  as  best  it 
might  the  astounding  political  news  which  had  just  been  promul- 
gated. 

At  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  Palais  Royal  the  two  friends, 
who  had  not  even  asked  each  other's  names,  were  met,  near 
what  was  then  the  The&tre  des  Varietes,  and  is  now  the 
The&tre  Franpais,  by  a  man  in  rags,  whose  business  consisted 
in  speculating  on  tickets  in  the  day  and  on  checks  in  the  evening. 

The  Varietes  was  giving  at  this  period  a  very  successful  piece, 
entitled  "  Harlequin,  Emperor  of  the  Moon." 

"M.  Danton,"  said  the  ticket-peddler,  addressing  himself  to 
the  Colossus,  "  Bordier  plays  to-night ;  wouldn't  you  like  a  nice 
snug  little  box,  where  you  can  take  a  pretty  woman  without 
being  seen  ?" 

But  Danton,  without  replying,  waved  him  off  with  his  hand. 

Then  the  persevering  peddler  turned  to  the  dwarf,  and  said: 

"  Citizen  Marat,  will  you  have  a  parquette  ticket  ?  You  will 
find  yourself  in  good  company  there,  I  warrant  you.  Bordier  is 
one  of  the  right  sort— a  true  patriot  and  no  mistake." 

But  Marat,  instead  of  replying,  shoved  him  away  with  his  foot. 

The  peddler  withdrew,  grumbling. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Hebert,"  said  a  boy,  looking  with  covetous 
eyes  on  the  bunch  of  tickets  in  the  peddler's  hand ;  :<  ah,  Monsieur 
Hubert,  do  give  me  a  ticket  to  the  upper  gallery  !" 

And  thus  it  was,  that  on  the  24th  of  August,  1788.  the  King's 
Counsel,  Danton.  was  introduced  to  Marat,  veterinary  surgeon  of 
,the  Count  d'Artois,  by  the  ticket-peddler  Hebert. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  37 

CHAPTER    IV. 

A     DINNER     AT     D A N T 0 N ' 8  . 

WHILST  Rivarol  was  asking  Champenetz,  without  the  latter 
being  able  to  tell  him,  who  were  the  two  unknown  news-mongers ; 
whilst  Bertin,  Parny  and  Florian,  gay  songsters,  heedless  of  the 
coming  storm,  separated  with  a  smile  and  a  cordial  adieu — Bertin 
to  begin  the  preparations  for  his  voyage,  Parny  to  write  the  last 
lines  of  his  forth-coming  work, "  Amours  of  the  UiWe;"and  Flori- 
an to  meditate  his  inauguration  address  for  his  reception  at  the 
Academic ;  whilst  Metra,  crest-fallen,  rushed  into  the  reading- 
room  of  Girardin  and  seized  the  Journal  de  Paris ;  whilst  the 
elegants  of  the  day  were  promenading  under  the  shade  of  the  only 
trees  left  by  the  innovating  Duke,  neither  heeding  nor  caring 
who  was  in  or  who  was  out;  the  ladies  wearing  black  gauze 
bonnets,  called  treasury  bonnets,  because,  like  that  public  estab- 
lishraeiSt,  they  contajned  no  crowns,  and  the  gentlemen  revelling 
in  waistcoats  called  "great  men's  waistcoats,"  from  having,  near- 
ly as  large  as  life,  on  one  side  of  the  breast,  a  portrait  of  Lafay- 
ette, and  on  the  other,  of  d'Estaing,  the  heroes  of  the  day— our 
two  patriots,  having  left  the  Palais  Royal,  threading  the  rue  St. 
Thomas  du  Louvres,  and  crossing  the  Pont  Neuf,  arrived  in  the 
Rue  du  Paon.  in  which  Danton  resided.  As  they  proceeded,  each 
had  understood  the  character  of  the  other. 

Helwrt,  it  is  true,  had  successively  pronounced  the  names  of 
Danton  and  Marat ;  but  these  names  were  then  no  indications, 
for  Marat  was  only  beginning  to  be  heard  of,  and  Danton  was 
utterly  unknown.  But,  in  addition  to  the  names  furnished  by 
Hubert,  the  individuals  to  whom  they  belonged  had  informed 
each  other  of  their  claims  to  celebrity.  Danton,  therefore,  knew 
that  he  was  walking  arm  in  arm  with  the  author  of  the  "  Chains 
of  Slarery,"  "  The  Man  of  Principle,"  "  The  Influence  of  the 
moral  on  the  physical  and  the  physical  on  the  moral  nature" 


38  INGENUE  J    OR, 

of  an  essay  on  "  Fire,  Electricity  and  Light,"  on  the  "  Priam 
of  Newton  ;"  and  Marat  knew  that  he  was  walking  side-by-sido 
with  George  James  Canton,  King's  Counsel,  the  last  of  a  good 
bourgeois  family  of  Arcis-sur-Aube,  husband  of  a  beautiful 
creature  named  Gabrielle  Charpentier,  and  father  of  a  mischiev- 
ous little  imp,  on  whom,  with  all  the  partiality  of  a  parent,  he 
founded  the  greatest  hopes. 

In  the  same  house  with  Danton  lived  Danton's  father-in-law, 
M.  Ricordin,  the  second  husband  of  his  mother,  but  who  had  so 
well  fulfilled  the  duties  of  a  father  to  his  step-son,  that  Danton 
loved  him  with  the  affection  of  a  child.  The  two  apartments 
joined  each  other.  That  of  the  father-in-law  was  the  largest 
and  handsomest — only,  within  the  few  last  months,  in  the  expec- 
tation of  the  large  practice  his  step-son's  talents  would  insure 
him,  Monsieur  Ricordin  had  given  up  to  him,  for  a -study,  the 
largest  drawing-room. 

Danton,  had  in  this  large  room,  concentrated  himself  and  his 
occupations — giving  up  the  rest  of  the  apartment,  composed  of 
three  rooms  only,  to  his  wife,  his  child,  and  his  only  servant 

It  was  into  this  room  that  Danton  conducted  Marat.  It  was 
ornamented  with  the  portraits  of  Danton's  mother  and  grand- 
father, two  good-natured,  calm  faces,  true  types  of  virtuous  me- 
diocrity, and  contrasting  strangely  with  a  magnificent,  full-length 
sketch  of  Danton,  in  the  attitude  of  an  orator,  which  seemed  ac- 
tually stepping  from  the  canvas.  The  picture,  too  unfinished  to 
admit  of  a  closer  view,  seen  from  a  distance  was  admirable — full 
of  genius,  energy  and  expression.  It  had  been  the  work  of  a 
sudden  inspiration,  completed  in  a  few  hours,  by  a  friend  of  Dan- 
ton,  named  Jacques  Louis  David. 

The  furniture  of  the  apartment,  with  the  exception  of  these 
portraits,  was  simple  and  unpretending.  A  few  details,  however, 
such  as  candelabras  and  a  clock  of  exquisite  workmanship,  re- 
vealed aspirations  of  art  and  refinement. 

Danton's  ring  at  the  door  was  well  known  by  his  family  — 
so  that  when  it  resounded,  wife,  child  and  dog,  all  rushed  joy- 
ously to  greet  him.  But  when,  behind  the  master  of  the  house, 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  39 

the  strange  gnest  he  was  bringing,  appeared,  the  young  wife  drew 
back,  the  child  began  to  cry,  and  the  dog  to  bark. 

Marat's  features  became  slightly  contracted,  and  a  dark 
shadow  passed  over  them. 

"  You  must  excuse  this  reception,"  Danton  hastened  to  say ; 
"  you  know  you  were  unexpected,  and  " 

'•And  the  sight  of  me  produces  the  usual  effect  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  these  effects— they  are  nothing  new." 

'•  Qabrielle,  dearest,"  said  Danton,  kissing  his  wife's  forehead 
apologetically,  I  met  this  gentleman  in  the  Palais  Royal ;  he  is 
a  most  distinguished  physician,  a  scholar,  and,  above  all.  a  patriot 
of  my  own  way  of  thinking ;  and  I  requested  him  to  accompany 
me  home  to  dinner." 

"Introduced  by  you,  my  deaj  George,"  said  Mde.  Danton, 
gracefully  turning  towards  Marat,  this  gentleman  is  welcome. 
I  beg  he  will  excuse  my  son,  who  did  not  expect  to  find  a  stran- 
ger with  his  father ;  and  the  dog " 

"  Is  a  good  watch-dog,  Madam  ;  besides  which,  I  hare  remarked 
that  by  nature  dogs  are  aristocratic  in  their  tastes." 

"  Are  any  of  our  guests  arrived  ?"  inquired  Danton. 

"  Not  yet ;  but  the  cook  is  come,"  replied  Mde.  Danton,  with  a 
smile. 

"  And  have  you  tendered  your  services,  my  good  little  house- 
wife 7  have  you  offered  to  assist  him  ?" 

"  I  have ;  but  I  blush  to  say  my  offers  were  refused." 

"  Really !  then  you  have  only  had  to  lay  the  cloth." 

"  Not  even  that" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  two  servants  were  sent  by  him  early  this  morning, 
with  table-linen,  silver  and  lamps,  and  they  undertook  every- 
thing." 

M  Does  he  then  think  us  so  poor  7" 

'•  He  says  it  was  so  arranged  with  you,  and  that  be  only  con- 
sented to  cook  on  these  conditions." 

"Well,  let  him  have  his  own  way — he  is  a  queer  genius. 
There's  the  bell — see  who  it  is,  my  love."  Then  turning  to 


40  INGENUE  :    OR, 

Marat,  he  continued,  "  Let  me  tell  you  who  are  my  expected 
guests.  One  of  your  own  profession,  to  begin  with — Doctor 
Guillotin ;  Talma,  and  Marie  Joseph  Chevier,  whom  I  name 
together,  because  they  are  inseparable;  Camille  Desmoulins,  a 
mere  boy,  but  full  of  wit  and  genius;  yourself,  my  good  friend  ; 
my  wife  and  myself— ah,  and  David,  whom  I  was  forgetting.  I 
had  invited  my  father-in-law,  but  he,  good  old  man,  was  afraid 
of  such  high  society,  as  he  is  pleased  to  call  it.  Parisians  frighten 
him ;  and  he  sighs  for  his  Arcis-sur-Aube.  Ah  !  Camille,  come 
in,  my  good  fellow." 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  young  man  of  the  middle 
height,  who  appeared  to  be  about  twenty  years  of  age,  though  in 
fact  he  was  eight  years  older.  He  was  evidently  the  friend  of 
the  family,  and  had  paused  in  the  ante-room  to  shake  hands  with 
Madame  Danton,  to  kiss  the  child,  and  to  return  the  caresses  of 
the  dog. 

"  Where  have  you  teen,  Camille  ?"  said  Danton ;  "  you  look 
quite  excited  ;  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter  "  said  Camille.  putting  down  his  hat, 

"  only ah,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dantyn,  I  did  not  see  you  had 

some  one  with  you,"  and  Camille  and  Marat  exchanged  saluta- 
tions. 

"  Well,  I  am  just  come  from  the  Palais  Eoyal." 

"  So  are  we." 

"  I  was  told  you  had  been  there,  and  I  not  having  met  you,  as 
promised,  in  the  alley,  got  anxious  about  you — that's  all." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  news  ?" 

"  Yes — the  resignation  of  that  rogue  M.  de  Brienne,  and  the 
appointment  of  Monsieur  Necker.  So  far  so  good— but  I  had 
another  object  in  view.  I  went  to  seek  somebody  who  it  is  said 
is  going  to  quarrel  with  me.  Now,  as  I  am  always  disposed  for 
a  fight " 

"  Who  the  devil  were  you  after  ?" 

"  That  viper  Rivarol,  and  that  snake  Champenetz." 

"  Apropos  of  what  were  you  going  to  fight  ?" 


THE   FIBST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  41 

"  Why.  havn't  these  snarling  cnrs  had  the  impudence  to  put 
me  into  their  infernal  Almanack  ?" 

"  What  the  devil  does  that  matter  ?" 

"  Why,  it  matters  a  great  deal— it  matters  that  I  don't  choose 
to  be  classed  with  a  M.  Desmarest  and  a  M.  Derbine,  surnamed 
Eugene — with  a  man  who  has  written  a  trashy  vaudeville  called 
1  //ore  the  Liberator,'  and  a  man  who  has  written  nothing." 

"And  what  have  yon  written,  I  should  like  to  know?"  said 
Danton,  laughing,  "that  should  entitle  you  to  be  so  susceptible." 

"  What  have  I  written  ?" 

"Yes— cau  you  tell  me? 

"  Why,  as  yet,  nothing,  I  must  admit— but  I  shall  write  very 
soon.  By  Jove !  now  I  remember,  I  have  written  something — 
here  it  is — an  epigram  worthy  of  Martial  himself : 

"  In  the  hotel  where  two  great  wit*  reside, 

The  guest*  are  always  bounteously  supplied  ; 

For  here,  instead  of  vulgar  cooks  and  grooms, 

'Tie  Ch&mpuneti  cooks,  while  Rivarol  sweeps  the  rooms." 

"  Did  you  put  your  name  to  it  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  did — and  it  was  to  get  the  answer  to  my  epigram 
that  I  went  to  the  Palais  Royal,  where  Rivarol  and  Champcnetz 
are  always  to  be  found.  Well ;  I  made  a  complete  failure — I 
didn't  make  my  expenses,  as  Talma  says." 

"Wouldn't  they^answcr  you?" 

"  Answer  me  !    They  pretended  not  to  see  me." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Marat,  "have  you  not  yet  got  beyond  the 
point  of  not  caring  for  what  is  said  "or  what  is  written  about 
you  ?" 

"  I  confess  that  I  have  not ;  I  even  admit  that  I  am  very  thin- 
skinned.  I  can't  bear  even  a  scratch ;  and  I  mean,  as  soon  as  I 
can.  to  have  a  newspaper  of  ray  own,  in  which  I  shall  say " 

*' What  will  you  say?"  said  a  voice  from  the  ante-room,  "if 
you  do  get  a  newspaper  of  your  own  ?" 

"  I  shall  say,  my  dear  Talma,"  replied  Camille,  who  had  recog- 
nised the  voice  of  the  great  artist,  then  just  beginning  his 


42  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

dramatic  career ;  "  I  shall  say  that  if  ever  you  get  a  good  part, 
you  will  be  one  of  the  greatest  actors  the  world  ever  produced." 

"  Well  then,  I  have  got  the  part,  and  here  is  the  man  who  has 
given  it  me." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Chenier ! "  exclaimed  Canaille  ;  "  so,  you  have 
been  perpetrating  another  tragedy,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  written  a  tragedy  for  me — a  gem  which  has  been 
unanimously  accepted.  It  is  called  Charles  IX.  I  am  to  play 
Charles  IX,  provided  the  government  allows  the  piece  to  be 
played.  Just  imagine  the  absurdity  of  St.  Phal  refusing  this 
part,  because,  forsooth,  he  says  that  the  sympathies  of  the  audi- 
ence would  not  be  with  the  King.  The  Idea  of  Charles  IX 
being  sympathetic,  eh,  Danton  !  I  swear  to  make  him  execrable, 
.fearful." 

"  In  a  political  point  of  view,  you  are  right,"  said  Marat ;  "  it 
is  right  to  make  all  kings  execrable ;  but  in  an  historical  point  of 
view,  you  will  be  wrong." 

Talma,  who  was  exceedingly  short-sighted,  drew  near  the 
speaker,  for  he  had  not  recognised  the  voice — he  who  knew  so 
well  all  the  voices  who  frequented  Danton's.  At  length  he  be- 
held the  speaker  and  gazed  in  amazement  on  the  strange  figure 
thus  revealed  to  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Marat,  fully  aware,  as  in  the  case  of  Madame 
Danton,  of  the  child,  of  the  dog,  the  effect  his  presence  always 
produced. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Talma,  recovering  himself,*"!  should  be  glad 
to  hear  you  more  fully  discuss  the  historical  view  of  the  subject." 

"Willingly,  sir.  I  say  that,  had  Charles  IX  allowed  the 
Huguenots  the  powers  and  privileges  they  wanted,  Protestantism 
would  have  become  the  religion  of  France,  and  the  Condes  its 
Kings.  Then,  like  England,  our  country  would  have  stood  still 
in  its  intellectual  progress,  the  puritanical  dogma  of  Calvin  would 
have  killed  the  spirit  of  inquiry,  the  aspirations  towards  art,  the 
thirst  for  glory,  which  are  allowed  by  Christ,  who  himself  pro- 
mises their  fruition.  The  doctrines  of  Christ  promise  liberty, 
fraternity  and  equality.  The  English  have  been  the  first  to  ac- 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  43 

quire  liberty,  but  there  they  have  stopped,  and  mark  my  words 
we.  not  the  English,  will  be  the  first  to  achieve  fraternity  and 
equality,  and  this  we  shall  owe  to " 

"  To  the  priests,  probably,"  interrupted  Chenier,  in  a  super- 
cilious tone. 

"  No,  not  to  the  priests,  Monsieur  de  Chenier,"  replied  Marat, 
laying  great  stress  upon  the  distinction  of  nobility  which  the 
author  of  Az^mire  and  Charles  IX  had  not  as  yet  abandoned ; 
"  not  to  the  priests,  but  to  religion— religion  does  good  where 
priests  do  harm.  If  you  gave  any  other  reading  than  this  of 
Charles  IX,  you  would  be  wrong." 

11  Well,  if  I  am  wrong,  the  public  will  soon  tell  me  so." 

"  This,  too,  is  very  bad  logic,  Monsieur  de  Chenier ;  and  I 
doubt  very  much  whether  you  have  as  willingly  accepted  its 
judgment  with  regard  to  Azlmire,  as  you  feel  inclined  to  do  re- 
specting Charles  IX." 

"  My  tragedy  of  Az^mire,  sir,  was  never  played  before  the 
public  ;  it  was  presented  only  before  the  Court :  and  you  know 
what  Voltaire  says  of  that  tribunal— that  great  men  have  often 
long  ears,  and  that  the  Court  is  the  last  place  to  look  for  criti- 
cism." 

u  Certainly,  sir,"  said  Marat,  "  I  am  entirely  of  your  opinion 
in  this  matter.  But  allow  me  to  say  one  thing  more  :  Perhaps 
it  may  happen,  at  some  future  time,  that  you  will  be  told  that 
Marat  is  an  enemy  of  religion — that  Marat  does  not  believe  in 
God— that  Marat  has  demanded  that  the  priests  should  be  killed. 
And  I  shall  demand  their  death — but  it  will  be  because  I  ven- 
erate religion  and  honor  God." 

"  And  if  the  sacrifice  you  demand  were  to  be  accomplished, 
Monsieur  Marat,"  said  a  little  man  of  fifty,  who  had  just  entered, 
"  I  should  propose  that,  for  the  operation,  you  should  employ  my 
newly-invented  machine." 

'  Oh,  there  you  are,  Doctor,"  -said  Danton. 

M  Ah,  Monsieur  Guillotin.  is  it  to  you  I  have  the  honor  of 
speaking  ?  "  said  Marat,  bowing  more  deferentially  than  he  had 
done  to  any  one  else.  D 


44  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Marat,  this  is  Doctor  Guillotin— an  excellent 
physician,  but  a  still  better  man.  But  of  what  instrument  are 
you  talking,  and  what  is  its  name  ?  " 

"  What  it  is  called,  my  dear  friend,  I  cannot  tell  you — I  have 
not  given  it  a  name.  But  the  name,  you  know,  is  of  no  conse- 
quence." Then,  turning  to  Marat,  he  continued :  "  You  do  not, 
perhaps,  know  that  I  am  a  great  philanthropist  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  you,"  returned  Marat,  with  a  certain  degree  of 
deference ;  "  that  is  to  say.  I  know  that  you  are  one  of  the  most 
scientific  men  of  the  day — that  you  carried  off  the  first  honors 
at  the  University  of  Bordeaux.  I  have  read  your  opinion  of 
Mesmer ;  I  have  heard  of  your  extraordinary  skill  as  a  physician. 
I  know,  too,  that  you  are  a  great  patriot,  and  I  am  not  quite 
ignorant  of  the  instrument  of  which  you  speak.  Is  it  not  intended 
as  an  instrument  of  decapitation  ?" 

"  What !  exclaimed  Camille  Desmoulins,  "  do  you  call  yourself 
a  philanthropist,  and  invent  instruments  of  destruction  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur  Desmoulins,"  gravely  replied  the  D*octor; 
"  and  it  is  because  I  am  a  philanthropist  that  I  have  invented  this 
one.  Until  now,  society  has  not  only  punished  its  criminals,  but 
it  has  sought  to  revenge  itself  upon  them.  What  else  were  all 
those  tortures,  by  fire,  the  wheel,  the  rack — by  burning  oil  and 
molten  lead — which  our  good  king  has  abolished  ?  What  does 
Justice  require  ?  The  destruction  of  the  criminal.  But  it  has 
no  right  to  inflict  upon  him  any  pains  unnecessary  to  his  death — 
or  else  justice  becomes  murder." 

"  And  do  you  pretend  to  say,"  exclaimed  Danton,  "  that  you 
will  destroy  man— man,  the  most  admirably  organized  of  all 
machines — man,  who  clings  to  life  by  his  instincts,  his  passions 
and  his  intellect — do  you  pretend  to  say  that  you  can  destroy 
man  on  the  instant,  as  a  charlatan  draws  a  tooth — instantane- 
ously and  without  pain  ?'' 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Danton,  yes !"  replied  the  doctor,  becoming 
enthusiastic ;  "  I  destroy  life  on  the  instant,  and  without  pain — 
in  the  same  way.  that  electricity  or  lightning  destroys  it.  I  strike 
as  the  eternal  justice  of  God  strikes." 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OK   BLOOD.  45 

u  But  how  do  you  contrive  it  ?"  asked  Marat ;  "  pray  describe 
your  invention  to  me,  if  it  is  not  a  secret.     You  cannot  imagine  » 
how  much  this  conversation  interests  me." 

••  Ah !"  said  Guillotin,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  at  having  at 
last  found  a  listener;  "sir,  my  machine  is  constructed  on  an 
entirely  new  plan,  and  is  of  the  very  greatest  simplicity :  so 
simple  that  you  will  be  astonished  to  learn  that  it  should  have 
taken  six  thousand  years  to  invent  it.  First  of  all,  you  must 
imagine  a  sort  of  platform  or  stage — Monsieur  Talma,  are  you 
listening." 

"  To  be  sure  I  am,"  replied  Talma  j  "  and  I  am  almost  as  much 
interested  as  M.  Marat." 

';  Well,  then — my  platform  being  raised,  and  made  accessible 
by  a  flight  of  steps,  I  fix  firmly  on  it  two  upright  posts,  between 
which  is  a  block  whereon  the  culprit  lays  his  neck.  At  the  top 
of  the  posts,  is  placed  an  axe,  reaching  from  post  to  post,  and 
sliding  up  and  down  in  well  oiled  grooves.  This  axe,  suspended 
by  a  cord  over  the  criminal's  head,  is  set  free  by  the  merest  touch 
of  a  spring,  and  descends  swiftly,  impelled  by  a  weight  of  some 
thirty  or  forty  pounds,  attached  to  it  by  a  pulley.  The  victim 
feels  nothing  but  a  slight  sensation  of  coldness  on  the  back  of 
the  neck— and  in  less  than  a  second,  his  head  is  separated  from 
his  body,  and  falls  into  a  basket  placed  for  the  purpose." 

"  The  devil !"  said  Camille ;  "  it  seems  mighty  ingenious." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  Guillotin,  becoming  more  and  more  ani- 
mated; "and  this  operation,  which  at  one  blow  separates  the 
material  from  the  spiritual — this  operation,  which  destroys,  which 
annihilates — occupies,  how  long,  think  you? — not  one  second!" 

••  That  may  be,"  said  Marat,  "  but  are  you  quite  certain  that 
sensation  does  not  continue  after  the  execution  ?" 

"  How  can  sensation  survive  life  ?" 

"  How  ?    Why,  does  not  the  soul  survive  the  body  T* 

"  Ah !"  said  Guillotin,  shrugging  his  shoulders ;  "  if  you  believe 
in  the  soul ! — but  even  then,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  all  spirit- 
ualists, who  diffuse  the  soul  throughout  the  whole  body,  you 
would  assign  it  a  distinct  abode — you  would  place  it  in  the  me- 


46  ING^NtTE  ;    OR, 

ninges — whereby  you  entirely  throw  aside  Descartes  and  follow 
Locke.  If  you  have  read  my  pamphlet  on  the  Tiers  Et&t,  I 
too  have  read  your  work  on  Fire,  Electricity  and  Light.  Not 
having  succeeded  in  your  opposition  to  Voltaire  and  the  philoso- 
phers, you  have  attacked  Newton ;  you  have  appealed  to  Franklin 
and  to  Volta  to  ratify  your  opinion,  but  they  have  differed  from 
you  on  your  theory  of  light — allow  me,  therefore,  to  differ  from 
you  on  your  theory  of  the  soul." 

Marat  had  listened  with  a  tranquil  ity  and  patience  to  this  out- 
burst from  Guillotin,  very  foreign  to  his  nature ;  but,  to  a  keen 
observer,  this  tranquility  would  have  indicated  the  extraordinary 
interest  Marat  took  in  the  Doctor's  discovery. 

"  Well  then,  sir,"  said  he,  "  let  us  leave  the  discussion  on  the 
soul,  since  it  so  offends  you,  and  merely  speak  of  the  body — since, 
after  all,  it  is  that,  and  not  the  soul,  which  feels  pain." 

"  And  if  I  destroy  the  body,  then  there  can  no  longer  be  any 


"  But  are  you  sure  that  you  do  destroy  the  sensibility  of  the 
body  instantaneously,  in  cutting  off  the  head  ?" 

"I  should  rather  think 

"  And  you  are  certain  of  producing  instantaneous  death  ?" 

B  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  do  not  understand  the  nature 
of  your  doubts." 

"  Oh,  they  are  very  simple,  very  easily  explained.  Do  we  not 
place  the  seat  of  sensation  in  the  brain  ?  Do  we  not  think  with 
the  brain  ?  Is  not  this  positive,  from  a  head-ache  being  the  result 
of  too  much  thinking  ?" 

"  You  probably  place  the  seat  of  life  in  the  heart."  exclaimed 
Guillotin,  anxious  to  forestall  his  adversary. 

"  Let  us  put  the  seat  of  life  in  the  heart,  if  you  please— but 
the  instincts,  the  passions,  are  surely  in  the  brain  1  Well — sep- 
arate the  head  from  the  body,  and  you  kill  the  body,  I  grant 
you  ;  but  the  head — who  tells  you  that  the  head  does  not  suffer  ? 
The  head,  sir,  does  suffer,  does  think,  as  long  as  there  remains  a 
drop  of  blood  to  feed  the  brain.  Now,  to  expel  this  blood,  it 
requires  eight  or  ten  seconds." 


THK   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  47 

u  Oh,  eight  or  ten  seconds!"  exclaimed  Camille;  "that  isn't 
much." 

"  Not  much !"  said  Marat;  "  are  you,  then,  so  little  of  a  philoso- 
pher, young  man,  as  to-  measure  pain  by  its  duration,  and  not  by 
the  agony  it  inflicts  ?— by  the  fact,  and  not  by  its  consequence*? 
Now,  when  pain  lasts  a  second,  it  is  as  if  it  lasted  an  eternity— 
and  when  this  pain,  however  insupportable  it  may  be,  still  leaves 
the  sufferer  the  power  of  knowing  that  the  cessation  of  that  pain 
will  be  the  cessation  of  life,  and  that,  in  order  to  prolong  that 
life,  he  would  be  willing  to  prolong  the  pain,  do  you  not  think 
that  this  mode  of  execution  is  the  most  horrible  of  tortures  ?" 

"  But  I  deny  that  there  can  be  any  sensation  at  all." 

"  But  I  affirm  that  there  is  sensation  and  suffering.  Besides, 
decapitation  is  not  a  new  mode  of  death.  I  have  seen  it  practised 
in  Poland  and  in  Russia,  where  the  head  was  severed  at  one  blow 
by  an  adroit  executioner,  with  a  sabre ;  and  I  have  seen  with  my 
own  eyes,  one  of  these  headless  bodies  walk  two  or  three  steps, 
and  fall,  only  because  it  came  in  contact  with  a  heap  of  sand, 
placed  to  receive  the  blood:  Tell  me,  if  you  please,  that  your 
newly  invented  machine  is  more  rapid,  and  has  the  advantage  of 
destroying  more  people  in  a  given  time,  than  any  other  means 
of  execution,  and  I  will  agree  with  you.  But  that  it  is  less  pain- 
ful, I  deny." 

"Well,  messieurs,  time  will  show — experience  will  convince 
you." 

u  Do  you  mean  by  that,"  said  Danton,  "  that  you  expect  us  to 
try  your  machine  ?" 

'*  No,  my  good  friend  ;  this  machine  is  only  for  criminals." 

"  Well  then,  Monsieur  Quillotin.  place  yourself  near  the  first 
criminal  executed  by  your  machine ;  take  np  the  head  on  the 
instant  it  is  severed  from  the  body — shout  in  its  ears  the  name 
it  has  borne  in  life,  and  you  will  see  the  eyes  open  and  look 
towards  you." 

"  Impossible,  sir,  impossible." 

<  What  I  tell  you  is  true,  sir ;  for,  having  tried  it  myself,  I  can 
affirm  it  positively." 

D* 


48  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

Marat  said  this  in  such  a  tone  that  no  one,  not  even  the  Doctor 
ventured  to  continue  the  argument. 

"  Notwithstanding  your  description,  my  dear  Guillotin,"  said 
Danton,  "  I  do  not  quite  understand  the  construction  of  your 
machine." 

"Here,  then,  Danton,"  said  a  young  man,  who  had  entered 
unobserved  during  the  discussion,  and  had  been  busily  employed 
in  sketching  the  machine,  as  Guillotin  described  it ;  li  here, 
Danton,  here  is  a  sketch  of  the  thing — do  you  understand  it 
now  ?" 

w  Ah'!  ah !  I  understand  now,"  said  Danton,  taking  the  drawing. 
"  Thank  you,  David,  it  is  a  clever  sketch ;  but  you  have  drawn 
the  machine  in  full  operation,  I  see." 

"  Yes,"  replied  David,  f;  there  are  the  criminals  to  be  executed 
— one  with  his  neck  under  the  axe,  and  two  awaiting  their  fate." 

"  And  who  are  your  criminals  1 — three  thieves.  I  suppose — 
Cartouche,  Mandrin.  and  Soulailler?"  asked  Danton. 

K  No — they  are  three  assassins — Wanloo,  Boucher  and  Watteau 
— humbugs,  whom  the  world  call  painters." 

"  Whom  have  they  assassinated  ?" 

"  Why,  art,  to  b«  sure." 

"  The  dinner  is  on  the  table,"  said  a  footman  in  livery,  throw- 
ing open  the  folding  doors. 

"  To  dinner,  gentlemen — to  dinner,"  said  Danton. 

"  Monsieur  Danton,"  said  Marat,  "  as  a  memorial  of  our  meet- 
ing, allow  me  to  ask  you  to  give  me  this  sketch  of  David's." 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  Danton.  "  You  see,  David,  how  your 
sketch  is  appreciated  ?" 

"  I  will  give  you  another,  Danton,"  said  David  j  "  pray  give  it 
to  Monsieur  Marat." 

Marat  pocketed  the  sketch,  and  the  whole  party  followed  Dan- 
ton  into  the  dining-room. 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  49 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE      DINNER. 

-  THE  dining  room  was  resplendent  with  light  Although  the 
dinner  hour  of  that  day  was  four  o'clock,  an  artificial  night  had 
been  obtained  by  closing  the  shutters,  and  innumerable  wax 
lights  were  placed  in  gilt  candelabra*  and  crystal  lustres,  whilst 
a  whole  row  of  small  lamps  had  been  placed  round  the  ceiling. 
It  was  evident  that  the  library  of  the  King's  counsel  had  been 
sacrificed  to  this  eventful  ceremony.  The  desk  had  been  pushed 
into  a  recess ;  his  large  arm-chair  served  as  a  support  to  an  in- 
geniously contrived  side-board.  Damask  hangings  had  been 
hung  around  the  walls,  in  order  to  hide  the  shelves,  strewed  with 
papers  and  books ;  whilst  a  large  round  table  was  set  in  the  mid- 
dle. 

This  table  was  covered  with  a  cloth  of  the  finest  damask.  In 
the  centre  was  a  large  surtout  in  silver  and  crystal,  representing 
in  the  midst — appropriate  attributes — statuettes  in  silver  of  Flora, 
Pomona,  Ceres,  and  Diana — all  the  goddesses  presiding  over  tho 
productions  of  earth,  air  and  water,  of  which  a  good  dinner  should 
consist 

Each  guest  found  on  his  napkin  a  bill  of  fare,  containing  the 
following  enumeration  of  dishes : 

1.  Ostend  Oysters,  which  have  arrived  by  express,  and  which 
are  opened  for  each  guest,  one  after  another  as  fast  as  he  can  eat 
them. 

"  2.  Soup  &  Posmazome. 

"  3.  A  Turkey,  weighing  eight  pounds,  boned,  and  then  stuffed 
with  truffles  from  Perigord,  so  as  to  have  assumed  a  spherical 
form. 

"  4.  A  Carp  from  the  Rhine,  sent  alive  to  Paris  from  Stras- 
bourg, and  put  living  into  the  hot  water. 


50  INGENUE  J   OB, 

"  5.  Quails  stuffed  with  truffles  and  marrow,  broiled  and  served 
on  buttered  toast. 

"  6.  A  fresh-water  Pike,  larded  with  prawns  and  served  in  a 
puree  of  prawns. 

,    "  7.  A  larded  roast  Pheasant,  with  a  pur6e  of  onions  a  la  Sou- 
bise. 
.  "  8.  Spinach,  seasoned  with  a  gravy  made  from  quails.       tfJJ 

"  9.  Two  dozen  Ortolans,  a  la  Proven9ale. 

"  10.  A  pyramid  of  Meringues  with  vanilla  cream. 
"  Wines,  first  course. 

"Madeira, Bordeaux,  Champagne,  Burgundy  of  the  best  vin- 
tage. 

"  Wines,  second  course. 

"  Alicant,  Malaga,  Sherry,  Syracuse,  Cyprus,  and  Costantia. 

"  N.  B.  The  gentlemen  are  at  liberty  to  call  for  any  of  the 
wines,  at  any  time  of  the  dinner ;  but  a  friend  advises  them  to 
take  them  in  the  order  in  which  they  are  set  down."  • 

The  guests  having  seated  themselves,  read  this  bill  of  fare  with 
every  variety  of  expression  and  feeling.  Marat  with  disdain, 
Guillotin  with  interest,  Talma  with  curiosity,  Chevier  with  indif- 
ference, Camille  Desmoulins  with  sensuality,  David  with  sur- 
prise, Danton  with  voluptuous  satisfaction.  . 

Having  perused  this  curious  document,  the  guests  looked  around 
the  table  and  discovered  that  there  was  one  place  vacant,  between 
Dan  ton  and  Guillotin,  they  being-  only  seven,  whilst  the  table 
was  set  for  eight. 

"  One  of  Danton's  guests  is  wanting,  I  perceive,  "  said  Camille 
Desmoulins  ;"but  as  to  be  so  much  behind  time,  is  an  insult 
offered  to  the  host,  the  guests,  and  above  all,  the  dinner,  I  move 
that  we  go  on  without  him." 

"  And  I,  my  dear  Camille,  making  to  my  guests  here  present 
the  excuses  of  my  guest  absent,  I  must  request  them,  after  having 
read  the  bill  of  fare  especially,  not  to  begin  without  him,  a  dinner 
which  they  owe  to  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  absent  guest  is  " 

"No  other  than  the  cook." 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  51 

"The  cook  !"  exclaimed  the  guests  in  chorus. 

"  Precisely — no  other  than  our  cook."  said  Danton  ;  and  added, 
( In  order  that  you  may  not  imagine  I  am  extravagant,  you 
must  allow  me  to  relate  the  history  of  our  dinner.  A  few  weeks 
ago,  a  respectable  old  abb6,  who  is  the  Princes'  man  of  business, 
came  to  consutl  me  on  some  important  law  affairs.  Having  heard 
what  he  wanted,  I  wrote  the  necessary  notes  and  opinions,  in 
exchange  for  which  he  presented  me  with  a  thousand  francs. 
Now.  not  choosing  to  soil  my  hands  with  the  gold  of  the  tyrants, 
I  resolved  to  consecrate  it  to  giving  a  dinner  to  my  friends.  * 
Accordingly  I  set  out  to  make  my  invitations.  Grimod  de  la 
Reyniere  being  the  nearest,  it  was  with  him  that  I  began.  This 
distinguished  epicure  politely  refused  my  invitation,  saying  he 
made  it  a  rule  never  to  dine  out  of  his  own  house,  unless  where 
he  was  allowed  to  cook  the  dinner  himself.  At  these  words  I 
drew  my  thousand  francs  from  my  pocket  and  placed  them  in  his 
hands,  telling  him  that  I  put  at  his  disposal  my  cellar,  my  cook, 
and  my  kitchen.  '  I  take  the  thousand  francs.'  said  he,  '  but  of 
your  other  offers  I  accept  but  the  kitchen.'  Therefore,  gentlemen, 
all  you  behold,  table-linen,  surtout,  silver,  candelabras,  Sowers, 
all  the  luxury  in  fact  which  surrounds  you,  you  owe  to  him,  as 
well  as  your  thanks,  and  not  to  me  " 

Scarcely  had  Danton  finished  his  explanation,  when  a  footman, 
throwing  open  the  entrance  door,  announced 

MM.  Grimod  de  la  Reyniere." 

At  this  name  all  rose  to  greet  a  man  of  about  thirty-six  years 
of  age,  whose  face  beamed  with  geniality  and  intelligence.  He 
wore  a  black  velvet  square-cut  coat,  and  black  satin  breeches, 
upon  which  fell  two  steel  watch  chains  with  quantities  of  seals 
and  brelwjues  (charms.)  White  silk  stockings  with  embroidered 
clocks,  and  shoes  with  diamond  buckles.  He  had  on  his  head  a 
hat  with  a  velvet  ribbon  and  diamond  buckle,  of  a  peculiar  shape ; 
this  hat  he  never  took  off,  not  even  at  table. 

As  he  approached,  a  flattering  murmur  greeted  him  from  all, 
excepting  Marat,  who  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  anger 
and  contempt.  4 


52  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Monsieur  Grimod,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
hat  and  bowing  to  all,  "  I  had  hoped  to  be  assisted  to-day  by  my 
distinguished  master,  La  Guepiere ;  but  unfortunately  he  was 
engaged  to  the  Count  de  Provence,  so  that  I  was  entirely  left  to 
my  own  resources.  I  have  done  my  best,  and  now  throw  myself 
on  your  indulgent  kindness." 

The  guests,  with  the  exception  of  Marat,  applauded  and  cried 
bravo !  as  though  they  had  been  at  a  theatre ;  and  Monsieur  Gri- 
mod replied,  like  an  artist  called  out  after  a  successful  represen- 
tationj  by  repeated  salutations.  "  And  now,  gentlemen,"  said 
he,  "  let  us  talk  no  more ;  dinner  is  the  only  time  whlre  wit  and 
conversation  are  out  of  place,  during  the  first  hour."  ', 

In  obedience  to  this  command,  the  guests,  nothing  loth,  began 
to  attack  the  oysters — the  silence  being  broken  by  la  Reyniere 
only,  who  occasionally,  and  in  an  authoritative  tone,  gave  a  sort 
of  word  of  command,  like  a  general  to  his  soldiers : 

"  Not  too  much  bread,  gentlemen — not  too  much  bread,  if  you 
please !"  cried  he  after  the  oysters  had  been  despatched. 

"  Why  not  much  bread  ?"  said  Desmoulins. 

"  For  many  reasons,  my  dear  sir.  In  the  first  place,  bread  is 
the  most  nourishing  of  all  alimentary  things.  Now,  it  would 
be  a  folly  for  a  man  to  sit  down  to  such  a  dinner  as  this,  if  he 
were  not  prepared  to  have  an  appetite  sufficient  to  go  to  the  end. 
Animals  feed — man  alone  knows  how  to  eat.  It  requires  a  mail 
of  talent,  too,  to  know  how  to  dine.  In  the  next  place,  bread, 
like  all  farinaceous  food,  inclines  man  to  obesity.  Now  obesity 
is  the  greatest  misfortune  that  can  overtake  a  man.  Doctor 
Guillotin,  who  will  take  good  care  never  to  allow  himself  to  get 
fat,  will  confirm  what  I  say.  Obesity  destroys  strength,  beauty 
and  symmetry  of  proportion ;  it  is  contrary  to  nature,  for  only 
portions  of  the  human  frame  ever  get  fat,  which  spoils  the  har- 
mony of  the  whole.  Obesity  disables  a  man  from  all  corporeal 
exercises  conducive  to  health — consequently,  it  is  unhealthy ;  and 
by  predisposing  man  to  repose,  engenders  dropsy,  apoplexy,  and 
many  other  diseases.  The  mind,  too,  is  of  course  affected  by  it — 
it  takes  away  energy,  vivacity.  Therefore,  I  repeat,  not  too 


THE   FIRST  DAY3   OF   BLOOD  53 

much  bread,  gentlemen.  Jean  Sobieski  and  Marius  are  two 
examples  of  the  fatality  of  eating  too  much  bread.  At  the  battle 
of  Lowies  being  closed  pressed  by  the  Turks,  Sobieski  was  obliged 
to  fly.  But  he.  was  so  stout  that  his  respiration  was  speedily 
exhausted.  He  was  obliged  to  be  supported,  almost  fainting  on 
his  horse,  whilst  his  soldiers  interposed  themselves  between  him 
and  the  enemy ;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  and  great  suffering 
that  he  escaped  at  last.  Now,  his  inordinate  lore  of  bread  cost 
the  lives  of  nearly  two  hundred  men.  Marius,  too,  had  the  same 
taste— he  ate  so  much  bread,  that  being  of  short  stature,  he  was 
soon  as  broad  as  he  was  long.  Although  during  his  exile  he  got 
thinner,  still,  history  says  that  the  soldier  commanded  to  kill 
him.  drew  back  alarmed  at  his  greatness.  Do  not  be  mistaken, 
my  friends,  the  historian  alluded  here  to  his  physical,  not  his 
moral  greatness.  Remember  this,  Monsieur  David,  if  ever  you 
should  paint  Marius  as  Minturnes. 

'•  Well,  at  any  rate,  this  time,  obesity  was  of  some  use. 

"  Not  much  use,  after  all ;  for,  a  little  while  after  this  adven- 
ture, he  died  of  an  excess,  which  his  obesity  rendered  fatal.  So. 
not  too  much  bread,  gentlemen— not  too  much  bread  !" 

The  first  service  was  now  brought  in.  It  was  preceded  by  a 
herald-at-arms.  in  full  costume,  and  followed  by  a  maitre  d'hotel 
in  black.  With  him  was  a  young  man  all  in  white,  representing 
the  )>n>r  of  the  ancients. 

Then  came  the  cooks  with  their  cotton  caps,  with  white  aprons 
and  bright  knives,  white  stockings  and  buckles  in  their  shoes, 
each  carrying  a  dish  in  his  hands. 

This  procession,  followed  by  the  footmen,  who,  with  the  two 
already  in  the  room,  formed  the  exact  number  of  the  guests 
walked  three  times  round  the  table.  At  the  third  time  they  put 
the  dishes  on  the  table ;  then  the  servants  took  each  his  stand 
behind  one  of  the  guests,  and  the  rest  of  the  attendants  disap- 
peared. 

The  soup  was  then  served.  It  was  so  strong,  so  succulent, 
so  well  flavored,  that  the  guests  referred  to  the  bill  of  fare,  to 
see  of  what  it  could  be  composed 


54  INGENUE  J    OB, 

"  By  Jove !"  said  Danton,  "  in  spite  of  your  prohibition  of 
speaking,  I  cannot  resist  asking  you  what  is  osmazome,  as  applied 
to  soup  ?" 

"  Simply  the  greatest  discovery  which  chemistry  has  ever  made 
in  favor  of  cookery.  Guillotin  knows  all  about  it." 

"But,"  said  Talma,  "what  is  it,  after  all?  Like  Moliere's 
bourgeois,  who  was  glad  to  know  that  what  he  talked  was  prose, 
I  should  not  be  sorry  to  know  what  I  am  eating,  when'I  am  told 
I  am  eating  soup  &  1'osmazome."  « 

"  Yes,  yes,"  exclaimed  all  excepting  Guillotin,  "  what  is  soup 
&  1'osmazome?" 

"  What  is  osmazome  ?"  said  Grimod,  pulling  his  sleeves  over 
his  hands,  which,  mutilated  from  his  birth,  he  had  never  liked 
to  show ;  "  Osmazome  is  the  pure  albuminous  part  of  meat, 
which  is  soluble  only  in.  boiling  water.  It  is  this  substance 
which  forms  that  delicious  brown,  on  roast  meat,  and  which  ex- 
hales such  a  savory  perfume  in  game  and  venison.  It  was  in 
view  of  the  preciousness  of  this  ingredient  that  Chevier  made  his 
soup  in  a  saucepan  having  lock  and  key.  It  is  to  prevent  the 
evaporation  of  this  substance,  so  very  evanescent,  that  true  epi- 
cures say  that  soup,  during  the  process  of  making,  should  always 
simper,  but  never  laugh — that  is,  boil." 

"  Bravo,  bravo  !"  cried  the  guests. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Camille  Desmoulins,  "  as  we  have  the  honor 
of  possessing  at  this  moment  the  most  distinguished  professor  of 
the  culinary  art  now  in  existence,  I  propose  that,  in  order  to 
profit  by  his  studies  in  the  art,  there  should  be  no  other  subject 
broached.  I  also  propose  that  the  first  who  shall  infringe  this 
injunction,  by  talking  about  anything  else,  shall  pay  a  fine  of 
ten  louis  to  the  sufferers  by  the  late  freshet." 

''  Chenier  proposes  an  amendment,"  said  Danton. 

"  I !"  said  Chenier,  "  I  never  opened  my  lips." 

"  No,"  said  Talma,  "but  you  looked  as  if  you  were  aoout  to 
propose  that  there  should  be  an  exception  made  in  favor  of  your 
Charles  IX." 

"  And  David,  another,  in  favor  of  his  last  picture,  the  Death 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  55 

of  Socrates,"  said  Grimod.  taming  the  laugh  against  another. 
"  Charles  IX  is,  doubtless,  an  admirable  tragedy,  and  the  Death 
of  Socrates,  a  magnificent  picture ;  but  you  will,  I  think,  all 
agree  that  for  men  just  set  down  to  a  feast,  a  young  king  shoot- 
ing Huguenots,  and  an  old  man  swallowing  hemlock,  are  but 
sorry  subjects.  Fie  upon  all  sorrowful  or  sombre  impressions  at 
the  table !  The  hast  who  invites  his  guests  to  a  good  dinner,  is  as 
much  bound  to  attend  to  the  cheerfulness  and  serenity  of  their 
moral  condition,  as  he  is  to  the  quality  of  the  dishes  he  sets 
before  them." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Danton,  "  I  call  upon  you  to  give  us  the 
history  of  that  magnificent  turkey,  which  you  are  carving  so 
dexterously." 

Grimod  de  la  Reynifire.  although  he  had  only  two  fingers  on 
each  hand,  was  a  most  skillful  carver. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  the  history  of  this  turkey,  as  a  bird, 
regards  Monsieur  de  Button  ;  but  it  has  another  aspect,  and  that 
concerns  Monsieur  Necker,  if  he  did  but  know  it" 

"  Monsieur  Necker,  the  minister  of  finance  ?  What  connexion 
can  there  possibly  be  between  the  two?  I  think,  Monsieur 
Grimod,  that  Monsieur  Necker  is  as  much  out  of  place  here  as 
Charles  IX." 

"  Follow  me,  gentlemen,  in  my  argument,  and  you  will  see  that 
there  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  very  important  connexion  between  this 
animal — or  rather,  his  species,  and  Necker.  In  the  provinces, 
sir,  the  turkey  is  a  source  of  great  riches.  Farmers  live  on  tur- 
keys shifted  with  truffles— that  is,  by  the  sale  of  turkeys  fit  to 
be  so  stufled.  Now,  there  is  a  calculation  to  be  made.  I  have 
ascertained,  that,  during  four  months,  from  November  to  Febru- 
ary, there  are  consumed  per  diem,  in  Paris,  three  hundred  tur- 
keys—making in  all  thirty-six  thousand.  The  average  price  of 
a  truffled  turkey,  is  twenty  francs— total,  seven  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  francs.  Supposing  that  the  provinces  only  con- 
sume, together,  three  times  as  many  as  Paris— that  would  make 
two  millions  eight  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  francs— a  pretty 
round  sum,  as  you  see.  Add  to  this  the  pheasants,  capons,  and 
E 


56  INGE.VTTE  ;    OR, 

partridges,  which  our  gastronomes  stuff  with  truffles — you  may 
set  down  about  six  millions  of  money  in  circulation  for  this  one 
object — none  of  which  brings  one  sou  to  the  government ;  though 
it  would,  it  appears  to  me,  be  a  proper  object  of  taxation.  That 
is  why  the  turkey  concerns  Necker  as  well  as  Buffon." 

"  And  these  delicious  carps,"  asked  Camille,  who  like  a  true 
epicure  as  he  was,  took  great  delight  in  this  conversation ; 
"would  you  tax  these,  also1?" 

"  No."  said  Grimod,  "  for  nature  alone  makes  them  what  they 
are.  They  need  no  farmer's  care  to  fatten  of  to  flavor  them." 

"  Tell  us,"  said  Chenier,  "  how  you  contrived  to  bring  this 
carp  alive  from  Strasboug  to  Paris.  Was  it  brought  by  slaves, 
like  the  smelts  from  Ostia  to  the  kitchens  of  Lucullus  and  Vario, 
or  in  a  wagon,  made  for  the  purpose,  such  as  the  Russians  use  to 
bring  the  sturgeon  from  the  Volga  to  St.  Petersburg  ?" 

"  In  neither  one  way  nor  the  other — it  came  simply  by  the 
mail  which  brings  the  letters.  The  carp,  here  before  us,  was 
caught  the  day  before  yesterday  in  the  Rhine ;  then  was  immedi- 
ately placed  on  a  bed  of  fresh  grass,  in  a  box  precisely  the  same 
size  as  itself — then  a  little  muslin  bag.  containing  thick  boiled 
cream,  was  introduced  into  its  mouth,  and  so  our  carp  travelled 
very  comfortably,  just  as  we  did  hi  our  infancy,  alternately  sleep- 
ing and  sucking." 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  exclaimed  Chenier,  "  I  acknowledge 
the  superiority  of  the  culinary  art  over  the  art  of  poetry." 

"There  you  go  too  far,  Monsieur  de  Ohenier.  Poetry  has  her 
muse  invoked  under  the  name  of  Melpomene ;  the  culinary  art 
has  her  muse  called  Gasteria.  Why  should  they  not  be  wor- 
shipped each  in  her  turn,  without  any  sort  of  envy  of  each  other's 
superiority  ?" 

At  this  juncture  the  second  course  was  brought  in,  with  the 
same  ceremony  as  the  first.  All  was  found  fully  worthy  of  the 
illustrious  artist  who  had  presided  over  the  kitchen.  The 
pheasant  and  the  spinach  were  especially  relished. 

"  Monsieur  Grimod."  observed  Camille,  who  was  of  an  inquisi- 
tive nature,  "  how  is  it  so  bad  a  general  as  Monsieur  de  Soubisa 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  57 

should  hare  given  his  name  to  so  excellent  a  thing  as  this 
pur6e  ?" 

li  Sir,"  replied  Grimed,  pompously,  "I  can  inform  you.  I  never 
cat  anything  blind-fold.  After  profound  research,  I  have  ascer- 
tained how  it  came  to  pass,  that  so  bad  a  general  as  M.  de  Sou- 
line  really  was,  spite  of  Voltaire's  flatteries — for  he  was  oftener 
defeated  than  any  other  general  on  record — came  to  have  so  excel- 
lent a  <1M\  named  after  him.  In  one  of  his  numerous  retreats, 
M.  de  Soubise  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  the  cottage  of  a 
German  peasant.  This  boor  had  nothing  to  offer  him  for  din- 
ner but  a  young  pheasant,  which  was  roasting  before  the  fire, 
suspended  by  a  string — the  very  best  method,  by-the-by.  The 
Duke,  all  overpowered  by  his  defeat,  obeyed,  almost  mechanic- 
ally, the  invitation  of  his  host  to  approach  the  table,  when  it  was 
ready.  He  had  no  appetite — at  least  he  thought  so  ;  but  no 
sooner  had  he  tasted  the  pheasant  and  the  pure"e,  than  he  felt  his 
appetite  return.  In  fact,  he  got  so  hungry,  and  the  pheasant  was 
so  delicious,  that  he  finished  it  all.  It  was  not  until  he  had 
nothing  but  the  bare  carcass  before  him,  that  he  found  time  to 
inquire  how  this  delightful  dish  was  concocted.  The  peasant 
sent  for  his  wife,  and  the  officers  found  him  writing  from  her  dic- 
tation, in  his  tablets,  what  they  supposed  to  be  notes  on  the  posi- 
tion of  the  enemy.  The  officers  were  lost  in  admiration  at  the 
activity  of  the  general,  who  could  in  such  a  moment  take  advan- 
tage of  information  accidentally  thrown  in  his  way.  But  M.  de 
Soubise  sent  an  express  to  Versailles,  which,  perhaps,  did  more 
to  maintain  his  favor  with  Louis  XV  and  Madame  de  Pompa- 
dour, than  if  he  had  announced  a  victory ;  he  sent  the  receipt 
of  the  dish  he  had  so  enjoyed,  to  the  King.  On  his  return,  the 
prince  gave  his  receipt  to  his  own  cook,  and  that  conscien- 
tious artist  called  it  after  his  patron — hence  the  name  of  the 
puree." 

"Really,  Griraod,  your  erudition  is  perfectly  bewildering. 
D'Alcmbert,  Diderot.  Helvetius,  Condorcet,  all  the  Encydo- 
prr/ia,  are  nothing  to  you." 


58  INGEXUE  J    OR, 

Grimod  bowed  courteously.  'Just  at  this  moment  Guillotin 
exclaimed, 

"  What   spinach,  my  dear  Grimod  1     It  is  divine." 

"You  do  honor  to  your  taste,  my  good  friend; it  is  the  very 
best  thing  at  the  table." 

"  And  how  is  it  made  ?" 

"  If  I  were  not  a  philanthropist,  I  should  say  that  I  kept  the 
receipt  to  myself;  but  I,  who  pretend  that  he  who  discovers 
a  new  dish,  is  of  more  use  than  he  that  discovers  a  new  planet 
— I  will  tell  you.  First  of  all,  your  spinach  must  be  boiled  on  a 
Sunday  5  then,  having  the  water  carefully  pressed  out,  it  must, 
each  succeeding  day  until  Saturday,  be  put  upon  the  fire  for 
half  an  hour,  with  a  piece  of  fresh  butter  ;  then,  on  the  last  day, 
to  the  butter  must  be  added  some  quail  gravy — then  serve  it  up 
hot, 'and  you  have  spinach  such  as  you  are  now  eating.  There, 
Doctor,  I  make  you  a  present  of  this  receipt,  because  I  like 
doctors." 

"  I  wonder  at  that,  for  doctors  generally  prescribe  starving, 
and  not  feeding." 

"  Ay,  but  I  never  follow  that  prescription.  They,  themselves, 
are  proverbially  epicures.  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  I  gave 
a  gastronomic  consultation  to  your  friend  Corvisart." 

"  Really  ?" 

"  Yes.  "We  were  dining  at  Sartone's.  Well — no  sooner  had 
Corvisart  swallowed  his  soup,  than  he  began  to  drink  iced  cham- 
pagne— by  which  means  he  soon  became  sprightly,  witty  and 
talkative.  But  before  the  end  of  the  dinner,  he  sunk  into  silence, 
looked  cross,  and  very  nearly  fell  asleep.  '  Ah,  Doctor.'  said  I, 
'you  will  never  enjoy  your  dessert.'  'Why  not?'  said  he. 
'  Because  champagne,  from  the  carbonic  acid  gas  it  contains,  pro- 
duces two  effects — the  first  inspiriting,  and  the  last  stupifying.' 
Corvisart,  struck  with  the  truth  of  the  observation,  promised 
never  to  drink  champagne  again  at  so  early  a  period  of  the  din- 
ner." 

"  Do  you  think  literary  men  as  great  epicures  as  medical  ones  ?" 
asked  Chemer. 


THE   FIKST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  59 

"  They  are  improving,  sir,  every  day.  Formerly,  they  were 
only  fond  of  wine — were  drunkards,  in  fact.  Now,  they  are 
beginning  to  get  a  better  taste — but  thery  are  not  yet  epicures. 
Voltaire  did  much  towards  reforming  their  habits.  Coffee  owes 
its  popularity  to  Voltaire ;  and  he  would  have  done  more,  had  he 
had  a  better  digestion.  Prometheus  and  his  vulture  are  but 
allegories — the  vulture  who  preyed  on  Prometheus'  liver,  was 
dyspepsia.  The  conqueror  of  Mithridates  had  a  bad  digestion — 
he  was  always  cross  and  cruel  after  eating ;  whilst  Antony,  who 
had  a  capital  digestion,  thinks  only  on  love.  Even  after  he  has  re- 
ceived his  death-wound,  he  has  himself  carried  into  the  tomb  of  Cle- 
opatra, and  dies  with  his  lips  on  her  hand,  the  poet  says— though 
more  likely  it  was  on  her  lips.  Remember,  it  is  not  what  we 
eat,  but  what  we  digest,  which  nourishes  us." 

"  Apropos  of  the  Queen  of  Egypt,"  said  Camille,  "  I  think  we 
may  as  well  begin  to  demolish  that  fine  pyramid  of  meringues, 
yonder." 

"  I  allow  you  to  do  just  as  you  please  with  the  meringues — I 
have  a  great  contempt  for  such  kind  of  things.  They  are  fit 
only  for  women  and  priests.  Are  you  not  of  my  opinion,  doc- 
tor?" 

But  the  doctor  was  occupied  in  watching  the  arrival  of  the 
dessert  and  the  coffee.  The  guests  had  great  expectations  of  the 
coffee — the  aroma  it  sent  forth  was  delicious.  After  they  had 
tasted  it.  a  murmur  of  satisfaction  was  heard. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Grimod,  extending  himself  in  his  chair, 
with  an  air  of  beatitude,  "  if  you  have  any  influence  in  society, 
pray  assist  me  in  banishing  that  absurd  habit  of  rising  from 
table  and  going  into  another  room  to  take  coffee.  Just  imagine 
the  difference  between  swallowing  one's  coffee  in  a  drawing-room, 
of  a  different  temperature  to  the  room  you  have  left — standing 
with  a  servant  at  your  elbow,  with  extended  salver,  impatiently 
waiting  to  snatch  the  cup  from  you.  You  cannot  help  commit- 
ting the  sacrilege  of  swallowing  as  fast  as  you  can  this  nectar, 
which  should  be  taken  slowly,  a  mouthful  at  a  time — and  taking 
it  in  your  own  place  at  the  table,  in  sight  of  delicious  fruits.  The 
B* 


60  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

proper  way  is  to  begin  by  leaning  over  the  cup  and  inhaling  the 
aroma  before  tasting  it — the  aroma  is  almost  as  delicious  as  the 
taste.  Dugazon,  the  great  low-comedian,  the  man  whose  nose 
is  known  to  be  capable  of  forty-two  different  expressions,  told 
me  that  he  lost  all  control  of  that  organ  the  moment  it  felt  the 
aroma  of  coffee.  Gentlemen,  his  nose  becomes  agitated — expands 
— lengthens — it  declares  war  against  the  mouth  ;  and  it  is  a 
struggle  between  the  two,  as  to  which  shall  be  gratified.  Duga- 
zon told  me  that,  as  yet,  the  mouth  hacLalways  carried  the  day 
and  swallowed  the  coffee — but  he  had  great  doubts  as  to  how 
this  warfare  would  ultimately  end." 

"  And  if  he  were  to  be  set  down  to  such  coffee  as  this,  the 
consequences  would  be  terrible,  I  should  think,"  said  Guillotinj 
':  I  am  sure  this  coffee  was  not  ground — it  was  ponnded  in  a  mor- 
tar." 

"  Ah,  Guillotin  !"  said  Grimod  with  emotion,  "  you  are  worthy 
of  your  reputation.  It  was  pounded.  As  a  testimony  of  my 
esteem  for  your  talents,  allow  me  to  send  you  one  of  my  old 
mortars." 

Camille  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 
Grimod  looked  at  him  with  contempt. 

"  Do  you  know,  profane  young  man,"  said  he  with  solemnity, 
"  that  I  sent  expressly  to  Tunis  for  a  mortar  which  was  more 
than  two  centuries  old,  and  that  I  paid  for  it  no  less  a  sum  than 
three  hundred  piastres?" 

"  Then  the  mortar  was  in  silver  and  the  pestle  of  gold." 
"  The  mortar  was  marble,  and  the  pestle,  wood — but  that  wood, 
by  constant  contact  with  coffee  had  become  itself  almost  coffee. 
Ah  !  the  Turks  are  masters  of  the  art  of  making  coffee.  Mon- 
sieur Chenier,  what  do  I  see !  You  are  sweetening  your  coffee 
with  powdered  sugar !" 

"  Powdered  or  lump,  it  cannot  matter  which,  I  should  think." 
"  It  matters  a  great  deal.     Did  you  never  observe  any  differ- 
ence in  the  taste  of  a  glass  of  water  sweetened  with  powdered 
sugar,  and  one  sweetened  with  sugar  in  lumps?     It  is  immense, 
sir,  immense !" 


THK   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  61 

u  Doctor,  do  explain  to  this  young  poet  the  component  parts  of 
sugar.  Sugar,  my  young  friend,  contains  three  substances- 
sugar,  gum.  and  starch.  Now,  in  the  crushing  of  sugar,  a  great 
portion  of  the  saccharine  matter  is  transformed  into  gum  or  starch ; 
and  therefore,  in  crushed  sugar,  the  saccharine  matter  is  no  longer 
in  proportion  to  the  two  others,  as  in  sugar  in  lumps.  Waiter, 
give  Monsieur  de  Chenier  another  cup  of  coffee,  and  the  lump 
sugar.  Then,  for  a  glass  of  pure  cognac — and  our  feast  is  ended." 

All  now  followed  Reyniere,  who  had  become  the  true  amphy- 
trion,  into  the  drawing-room.  Marat  and  Danton  were  the  last 
who  entered. 

"  You  have  not  offered  a  word  during  the  whole  dinner,"  said 
the  latter  to  Marat ;  "  did  it  not  please  you  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  thought  it  only  too  good." 

"  Too  good  !  was  it  that  which  made  you  silent.?" 

"  It  led  me  to  reflect,  that  with  his  most  epicurean  tastes,  this 
Grimod  de  la  Reyniere  had  devoured  during  his  life  what  would 
have  sufficed  for  the  subsistence  of  ten  families." 

'•  You  perceive  that  such  an  idea  has  never  entered  his  head ; 
nor  would  it  afflict  him,  if  it  had." 

••  No,  God  has  afflicted  them  with  mental  blindness ;  but  the 
day  will  come  when  their  eyes  shall  be  opened  and  they  will 
have  to  give  an  account  of  themselves — these  vampires  who  have 
fed  for  so  long  on  the  blood  of  the  people." 

"  Well,  when  that  happens " 

"  Why,  then  I  think  that  the  invention  of  our  friend  Guillotin 
will  be  appreciated  at  its  true  value.  Good  night,  Monsieur 
Danton !" 

"  What !    Are  you  going  to  leave  us  already  ?'•' 

"  Why  should  I  stay  ?  I  am  incapable  of  appreciating  Mon- 
sieur Grimod's  aphorisms." 

••  I  want  you  to  remain  with  me,  to  accompany  me  to  the  club.1 

«  To-night?" 

"  To-night." 

"  To  what  club  ?" 

"  To  the  Socialist  Club.    I  know  of  no  other." 


62  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  If  I  go  where  you  want  to  take  me,  will  you  afterwards  come 
to  where  I  shall  take  you  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  will,  with  great  pleasure." 

"  Upon  your  honor  ?" 

"  Upon  my  honor." 

"  Then  I  will  remain." 

So  saying,  Marat  followed  Danton  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  M.  Grimod  de  la  Reyniere  was  still  developing  his  theory 
of  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE     CLUB     OF     THE     SOCIALISTS. 

ABODT  an  hour  after  this  conversation  between  the  two  new 
friends — David  having  returned  home,  Camille  Desmoulins  having 
gone  to  visit  the  young  girl,  Lucile  Duplessis,  to  whom  he  was 
engaged ;  Talma  and  Chenier  having  gone  to  the  TtieAtre  Fran- 
fais  to  talk  a  little  more  about  Charles  IX,  of  which  they  had 
not  been  able  to  put  in  a  word  at  dinner — Grimod  de  la  Rey- 
niere having,  as  was  his  custom  every  evening,  gone  to  the  Opera 
— Guillotin  having  gone  to  meet  his  electors — Danton  and  Marat 
left  the  rue  de  Paon  and  retraced  their  steps  to  the  Palais  Royal. 

But,  however  animated  the  Palais  Royal  during  the  day,  the 
scene  it  presented  in  the  evening  was  far  more  brilliant.  All  the 
iewellers,  all  the  dealers  in  porcelain,  all  the  tailors,  all  the  millin- 
ers, all  the  hair-dressers,  with  their  swords  by  their  side,  occupied 
shops  highly  decorated,  and  set  out  in  the  evening  with  additional 
care.  At  one  end  of  the  galleries  the  public  were  pressing  on  to 
hear  Bordin  in  his  Harliquinades ;  in  another  gallery  was  the  no- 
less  frequented  gambling-house  bearing  the  No.  113,  which  existed 
till  gambling  was  abolished  by  Louis  Philippe,  and  on  which 
Andrieux,  the  philosopher  and  dramatist,  had  just  written  the 
following  verses: 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  03 

"  Three  doors  to  this  dread  place  yon  MO — 
Their  names,  Hope,  Death,  and  Infamy. 
You  enter  by  the  first— paw  through ; 
And  exit   by  the  other  two." 

On  the  opposite  side  was  the  caft  Foy — the  rendezvous  of  all 
parties.  In  the  centre  was  the  famous  Circus,  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  where  was  held  the  Socialist  Club,  but  which  on  this 
particular  night  was  called  the  "American  Club." 

As  soon  as  they  had  left  the  rue  du  Paon— then,  as  now,  a  very 
quiet  street — Danton  and  Marat  remarked  symptoms  of  extraor- 
dinary agitation  in  the  populace.  It  was  evident  that  the  news 
of  de  Brienne's  resignation  and  Necker's  appointment  was  begin- 
ning to  be  known,  for  the  people  were  assembled  in  groups, 
declaiming  and  discussing  the  news  with  great  vehemence. 
Hatred  for  de  Brienne,  and  gratitude  and  love  for  Necker,  were 
everywhere  expressed.  The  King's  conduct,  too,  was  much 
admired.  All  had  a  great  affection  for  the  king— for  it  must  be 
remembered  that  whatever  reforms  were  called  for,  whatever 
opinions  were  professed,  there  was  but  one  opinion  in  1788  as  to 
the  King  and  Queen.  Every  body  was  a  royalist — any  other  than 
a  monarchical  government  had  never  been  thought  of. 

On  the  Pont-Neuf  the  crowd  was  so  great  as  to  obstruct  the 
passage  of  the  carriages.  The  crowd,  too,  was  boisterous,  and 
composed  of  such  elements  that  a  spark  of  contradiction  or  doubt 
of  the  truth  of  the  great  event  would  have  inflamed  it  into  in- 
surrection. 

In  the  Palais  Royal,  the  crowd  was  perfectly  dense,  and  the 
noise  bewildering.  The  apartments  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  were 
brilliantly  illuminated ;  and  from  the  numbers  seen  through  the 
lace  curtains,  passing  to  and  fro,  it  was  evident  that  the  reception 
of  his  highness  was  very  numerously  attended.  The  crowd  of 
people  coming  in  all  directions,  was  like  the  ebbing  and  flowing 
of  the  tide.  Danton  and  Marat  were,  however,  very  good  swim- 
mers in  such  a  troubled  ocean.  They  very  soon  contrived  to 
make  their  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Palais  Royal,  by  the  rue 
de  Valois. 


64  INGENUE  ;  OK, 

"When  they  arrived  at  that  portion  of  the  galleries  called,  as 
we  have  said,  the  Camp  des  Tartars,  Dan  ton,  in  spite  of  the 
visible  repugnance  of  his  friend,  stopped  to  gaze  an  instant  on 
the  singular  and  animated  picture  before  him :  women,  young  and 
lovely,  rouged  to  the  eyes,  covered  with  flowers  and  jewelry, 
dressed  as  for  a  ball,  with  neck  and  arms  bare — many,  too, 
displaying  the  legs  as  high  as  the  knee.  Some  accosfed  the  men 
as  they  passed,  with  a  lascivious  smile ;  some  called  to  them,  or 
arrested  them  by  the  skirts  of  their  coats ;  some  were  walking 
two  by  two,  like  confidential  friends,  quietly  and  soberly — others 
saluted  an  acquaintance  as  he  passed,  with  a  gross  expression 
which  made  the  hearers  shudder — so  little  could  they  accustom 
themselves  to  the  idea  of  hearing  such  language  from  such  beau- 
tiful creatures,  dressed,  too,  like  Duchesses,  and  differing  appa- 
rently from  them  in  nothing  but  that  their  jewelry  was  false, 
and  that  they  rejected  indignantly  the  proverb  of,  (:  Deceitful  as 
a  Duchess,"  then  much  in  vogue. 

Danton  looked  on  with  delight.  Endowed  with  an  organiza- 
tion at  once  sensual  and  energetic,  he  was  always  attracted  by 
pleasure  and  luxury ;  gold  especially,  in  all  its  forms,  had  an 
irresistible  attraction  for  him,  as  a  medium  of  power — whether 
it  was  piled  up  in  the  shop  of  a  money-changer,  or  glittering  on 
the  bosom  of  a  prostitute. 

Marat,  however,  pulled  him  away;  and  though  he  followed 
Marat,  he  turned  round  every  now  and  then  to  gaze  on  the  fas- 
cinations of  this  Pandemonium. 

But  in  the  gallery  they  now  entered,  fresh  temptations  awaited 
them.  It  was  here  that  men  enveloped  in  cloaks,  (although  it 
was  in  the  middle  of  summer)  perambulating  the  galleries,  offered 
for  sale  all  the  obscene  books  of  the  day— a  period  when  such 
literature  was  the  fashion.  "  Monsieur,  would  you  like  to  read 
The  Hake  of  Quality,  by  M.  de  Mirabeau  ?  a  charming  work ! 
or  Felicia,  or  my  Wild  Oats,  with  engravings,  by  Monsieur  Mer- 
ciat?"  '-'Monsieur,"  said  another,  "I  can  give  you  Old  Father 
Mathieu,\ty  the  Abbe  Dulaurens."  This  was  called  in  those  days, 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  65 

Cloak  Literature,  because,  as  may  be  imagined,  such  works "were 
circulated  clandestinly,  being  forbidden  by  the  authorities. 

In  order  to  get  rid  of  these  importunities,  hateful  to  Marat, 
but  to  which  Danton  was  not  unwilling  to  listen,  they  resolved 
to  make  a  short-cut  across  the  garden.  Here  they  encountered 
the  duennas,  stool-pigeons  of  houses  of  ill-fame,  beating  up 
recruits ;  though  on  this  eventful  evening  they  had  very  little 
chance  of  success,  absorbed  as  were  all  other  passions  in  the 
great  political  crisis  of  the  day. 

At  length  they  reached  the  circus ;  and  then  all  obstacles  were 
at  an  end — for  Danton.  having  exhibited  two  tickets,  was  with 
Marat  admitted  instantly  by  the  smiling  and  gracious  ushers. 

The  magnificent  room  in  which  the  Club  was  held,  was  most 
brilliantly  illuminated  with  wax  candles.  The  American  :ui<l 
French  flags,  interwoven  with  each  other,  surrounded  shields,  on 
which  the  names  of  the  victories  gained  by  the  united  armies 
were  inscribed.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  room  were  three  busts, 
which  attracted  great  attention.  They  were  the  busts  of  Wash- 
ington. Franklin,  and  Lafayette. 

Theodore  de  Lameth,  the  eldest  of  the  two  brothers  of  that 
name,  known  in  history,  was  in  the  chair,  being  the  President  for 
that  evening. 

Laclos,  the  author  of  the  Liaison*  Dangereuses,  was  acting 
as  Secretary. 

The  galleries  were  filled  with  ladies,  all  partizans  of  American 
Independence.  There  was  Madame  de  Genlis,  in  a  tight  dress 
d  la  Polonaise,  of  striped  silk.  There  was  the  Marquise  de 
Villette — surnamed  belle  et  bonne,  by  Voltaire — wearing  a  flowing 
dress  ornamented  with  ribbons  imitating  a  leopard  skin,  and 
called  d  la  Circanxiennc. 

There,  too,  was  Theresia  Cabamia,  afterwards  celebrated  under 
the  name  of  Madame  Tallicn,  and  who  then  was  Marchioness  of 
Fontenoy.  Beautiful  ever,  she  looked  more  dazzlingly  so  beneath 
the  folds  of  the  black  lace  mantilla  in  which  she  had  enveloped 
herself,  and  from  beneath  which  her  bright  eyes  shone  like  stars 
at  midnight 

9 


66  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

Near  her  was  Josephine  Tascher,  Marquise  de  Beauharnais,  a 
graceful  and  pretty  Creole,  to  whom  a  fortune-teller  had  foretold 
that  morning  that  she  should  one  day  be  Empress  of  France. 

Here,  too,  was  the  famous  Olympe  de  Gourges,  whose  mother 
sold  old  clothes,  but  whose  father,  Leonard  Bourbon,  was  related 
to  the  royal  family  of  France — a  strange  blue-stocking,  possessing 
an  income  of  two  hundred  thousand  francs,  who  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  but  who  dictated  to  her  secretaries  novels  and 
poems,  which  she  never  learned  to  read.  She  had  entered  almost 
simultaneously  with  Marat  and  Danton,  and  her  entrance  had 
been  greeted  with  acclamations  and  applause.  She  had  just  given. 
at  the  Theatre  Franpais,  after  five  years  supplication,  a  drama 
called  "  The  Slave  Trade."  The  play  had  not  had  a  very  bril- 
liant success  ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  the  public  from  appre- 
ciating and  applauding  the  subject  and  spirit  of  the  piece,  if  not 
the  piece  itself. 

In  the  midst  of  these  fair  dames,  caressed,  flattered,  ogled, 
sighed  at,  talked  at,  admired  and  loved,  fluttered  the  hero  of  the 
day.  the  young  Marquis  de  Lafayette. 

He  was  then  a  handsome  and  accomplished  young  man.  High 
born,  possessing  a  large  fortune,  allied  by  his  wife — the  daughter 
of  the  Duke  d'Ayen — to  the  noblest  families  of  France,  impelled 
when  scarcely  twenty  to  seek  far  from  his  country  that  liberty 
which  was  germinating  everywhere — he  had  secretly  and  at  his 
own  expense  chartered  two  vessels,  freighted  them  with  arms 
and  ammunition,  and  had  arrived  in  Boston  to  aid  the  Americans 
against  England — just  as,  fifty  years  later,  Byron  went  to  Misso- 
longhi  to  assist  the  Greeks  in  their  struggle  against  the  Turks. 

More  fortunate  than  the  illustrious  poet,  he  was  destined  to 
behold  the  fruition  of  the  struggle  in  which  he  shared ;  and  if 
Washington  is  the  father  of  American  liberty,  Lafayette  may 
claim  to  be  its  godfather. 

The  enthusiasm  which  he  excited  in  France,  on  his  return, 
was  perhaps  greater  than  that  which  he  had  excited  in  America 
on  his  arrival.  In  Paris  and  at  Versailles,  he  had  become  the 
fashion.  Franklin  had  made  him  a  citizen — Louis  XVI  had  made 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  67 

him  a  general.  The  queen  had  smiled  on  him.  This  popularity 
suited  him  exactly,  and  the  general's  uniform  became  him  won- 
derfirfy  well.  His  vanity  had  whispered  it  to  him,  and  if  a  man 
who  was  in  his  thirty-first  year  was  disposed  to  despise  such  a 
futile  advantage,  the  women  took  good  care  to  remind  him  of  it 
by  every  possible  flattery. 

There  was  another  person  who  shared  the  empire  of  fashion 
with  Lafayette:  this  was  the  Count  d'Estaing,  who,  after 
many  defeats  in  India  and  in  America,  had  just  obtained  a  signal 
victory  over  the-  English,  under  the  command  of  Commodore 
Byron. 

The  Count  d'Estaing,  however,  was  an  old  man,  so  that,  though 
universally  admired  for  his  valor,  the  ladies  seemed  rather  to 
leave  the  testimonies  of  this  admiration  to  the  men,  whilst  they 
undertook  to  patronize  Lafayette. 

There  were  others  present,  who  at  this  time  had  not  attained 
celebrity,  but  who  were  destined  to  do  so  in  a  very  short  space 
of  time. 

There  was  the  AbW  Grigoire,  who. was  enthusiastic  in  tne 
causo  of  the  blacks,  to  free  whom  ultimately  became  the  object 
of  his  life. 

Clariere.  another  champion  of  the  negro  race. 

The  Abbe  Raynal.  just  returned  from  the  exile  to  which  he 
nad  been  condemned  for  his  work  entitled  Philosophical  His- 
tory of  the  Indie*. 

Condorcet— about  to  begin  life  for  the  third  time— he  had 
been  first  a  mathematician  with  D'Alembert — a  critic  with  Vol- 
taire, and  now  he  was  about  to  become  a  politician  with  Verg- 
niaud  and  Barbarous.  Condorcet  was  a  profound  thinker  in 
private  and  in  public,  in  the  closet  or  in  society,  having  more 
special  knowledge  on  every  subject  than  any  man  professing  but 
one  speciality  ;  talking  little,  listening  a  great  deal,  profiting  by 
all,  and  never  forgetting  anything  he  had  once  heard. 

Brissot,  who  had  just  arrived  from  America,  madly  devoted  to 
the  cause  of  liberty  and  democracy,  a  friend  of  Lafayette's  and 


68  INGJZNUE  ;    OR, 

the-  author  of  the  (:  Address  to  Foreign  Powers,''  awaiting  only  an 
opportunity  to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  political  party. 

Boucher,  who  had  just  published  his  poem  of  the  months,  and 
who  was  then  translating  Smith's  "  Wealth  of  Nations" 

Malonet,  who  had  but  just  given  to  the  public  an  Essay  on 
Negro  Slavery,  and  who,  at  the  moment  of  Danton  and  Marat's 
entrance,  had  just  mounted  the  tribune  and  was  waiting  to  speak 
until  the  effect  produced  by  the  entrance  of  Olympe  de  Cleves 
should  have  subsided. 

Clariere  had  preceded  him.  Clariere  had  spoken  on  slavery 
in  general,  and  theoretically,  promising  that  his  friend  Malonet 
would  illustrate  the  subject. with  facts,  which  from  their  horror 
would  excite  .the  indignation  and  profound  pity  of  the  assembly. 

The  assembly,  animated  by  that  excitement  which  pervaded  all 
ranks  at  this  time  by  a  desire  to  distinguish  itself  in  the  eyes  of 
celebrated  beauties  who  looked  down  on  them  from  the  galleries, 
were  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  an  excitement  which  should 
arouse  their  enthusiasm. 

Silence  was  soon  obtained;  the  men  lingeringly  withdrew  their 
admiring  gaze  from  Mde.  de  Beauharnais  to  Mde.  Cabarrus ;  the 
ladies  ceased  to  flirt  with  Brissot  and  Lafayette,  and  turned  all 
their  attention  to  Malonet,  who  already  in  the  attitude  of  an  ora- 
tor in  the  tribune,  was  impatiently  waiting  to  begin. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he  at  length,  "  I  am  about  to  undertake  a 
most  difficult  task ;  I  am  about  to  relate  the  misfortunes  of  a  race 
which  from  the  horrors  it  endures  would  appear  to  be  accursed, 
though  it  has  done  nothing  to  deserve  the  malediction  which  seems 
to  pursue  it.  Happily  my  cause  is  the  cause  of  humanity,  for 
were  it  not  that  every  heart  is  with  me,  I  could  scarcely 
trust  to  my  poor  eloquence  so  great,  so  sacred  a  cause. 

li  Gentlemen,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  when  after  a  social  dinner, 
extended  on  comfortable  easy  chair,  leaning  on  soft  cushions,  you 
sweetened  and  sipped  your  coffee,  that  the  delicious  aroma,  the 
exhilarating  taste,  which  so  gratified  your  senses,  had  cost  the 
lives  of  millions  of  human  beings  ? 

"Yes,  of  human  beings,  for  are  not  those  unfortunate  children  of 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  69 

Africa,  sacrificed  by  thousands  to  the  gratification  of  European 
sensuality,  our  equals  and  our  brothers,  in  the  eyes  of  God,  the 
Creator  ?" 

A  murmur  of  approbation  testified  the  approval  of  the  assem- 
bly—all the  refined,  elegant,  powdered,  perfumed  dandies,  all 
fastidious,  delicate  women,  covered  with  diamonds  and  lace,  agreed 
with  the  orator  in  considering  their  brothers  and  equals  the 
negroes  of  Congo  and  the  negresses  of  Senegal. 

••  And  now,  tender  and  gentle  hearts,  listen  to  me,"  continued 
Malonct  in  the  bombastically  sentimental  style  of  the  day, 
"  remember  that  what  I  am  about  to  relate  is  not  a  novel  invented 
merely  for  your  amusement.  All  are  true  facts  which  I  will 
bring  forth  to  illustrate  the  horrible  sufferings  which  for  two 
centuries  have  overwhelmed  the  African  race.  From  America 
r.nd  from  Africa,  the  voice  of  the  poor  victim  of  man's  tyranny 
appeals  to  you  for  mercy — for  help — for  justice.  Will  you  not 
answer  their  appeal?  Shall  not  the  voice  of  man,  strong  and 
energetic,  of  woman  gentle  and  supplicating,  reach  the  ear  of  the 
sovereigns  of  Europe,  and  arouse  them  to  the  conviction  that  they, 
the  representatives  of  Qod  upon  earth,  are  offending  Qod  by  thus 
becoming  the  oppressors  of  a  race,  made  like  themselves,  after 
his  own  image  ?" 

Here  there  were  outbursts  of  applause  ;  but  some  few,  anxious 
to  get  at  the  facts  he  promised,  desired  Malonct  to  proceed. 

"Do  you  know,"  continued  he,  "what  is  the  slave-trade?  Do 
you  know  how  it  is  carried  on,  this  bartering  of  human  flesh, 
where  man  sells  his  fellow  man  ? 

"  When  a  slaver  approaches  the  coast  of  Africa  to  obtain  a  ship- 
load of  slaves,  he  sends  to  some  of  the  petty  sovereigns  of  these 
latitudes,  specimens  of  the  merchandises  he  offers  in  exchange, 
together  with  a  present  of  a  cask  of  brandy. 

u  Brandy  !  Fire-water  as  the  unhappy  negroes  call  it ;  fatal  dis- 
covery, which  we  have  taken  from  the  Arabs,  from  whom  also 
we  have  learned  distilling,  which  they  had  invented  to  distil  the 
perfume  from  the  flowers,  especially  the  rose,  so  famous  in  their 
legends  and  their  poesy.  Fatal  fire-water !  thou  hast  conquered 


70  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

more  noble  minds,  and  destroyed  more  nations,  than  those  fire- 
arms which  the  ignorant  savage  compares  to  the  thunderbolts  of 
heaven  f" 

This  was  in  the  most  approved  style  of  the  day,  and  our  orator 
was  greeted  with  enthusiastic  applause. 

"  When  the  captain  of  the  slave-ship  has  sent  his  fatal  pres- 
ents, he"  waits  patiently  till  the  shades  of  night  descend.  No 
sooner"  has  darkness  covered  the  land,  than  the  red  glare  of  fire 
replaces  the  light  of  day ;  from  village  to  village  the  devouring 
flames  speed  along,  and  from  his  station  on  deck,  the  captain  can 
hear  the  wild  shrieks  of  mothers  torn  from  their  children,  hus- 
bands from  their  wives,  boys  from  their  aged  fathers.  The 
groans,  too,  of  the  dying  are  borne  to  him  across  the  wave,  for 
there  are  many  who  prefer  death  to  slavery  far  away  from  their 
family,  their  country  and  their  affections. 

"  Sometimes  the  struggle  will  last  for  three  or  four  days,  but 
betrayed  by  their  sovereigns,  by  fire-water,  by  European  strata- 
gem, the  miserable  remnant  of  numberless  villages  are  finally 
dragged  to  the  ship,  and  the  captain  has  at  last  his  three  or  four 
hundred  slaves,  to  obtain  which,  perhaps,  four  thousand  have 
perished  in  the  fight  or  in  the  flames. 

"  So  it  was  that  the  captain  of  the  slave-ship  New  York  obtained 
his  slaves  from  the  king  of  Barsilly. 

"  These  unhappy  beings  are  then  subjected  to  the  examination 
of  the  surgeon  of  the  ship.  Those  whom  he  declares  to  be  well 
organized  and  healthy  are  marked  with  a  hot  iron  on  the  shoulder. 
Then  they  are  consigned  to  the  hold,  where  during  a  long  voyage, 
they  undergo  every  species  of  misery,  though  death  often  relieves 
them  of  their  sufferings,  and  deprives  the  slave-captain  of  his 
prey.  Death,  too,  takes  many  forms,  despair  leads  to  suicide,  as 
on  board  the  slaver  who  traded  to  Guinea,  commanded  by  Captain 
Philips,  where  twelve  negroes  threw  themselves  into  the  sea,  and 
being  chained  together,  of  course  instantly  sunk. 

"But  the  worst  form  of  death  is  by  the  terrible  and  excruciating 
diseases,  occasioned  by  the  close  atmosphere  vitiated  by  human 
execrements ;  numbers  expire  in  the  greatest  agony,  whilst  others, 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  71 

le*s  fortunate,  lire  through  all  their  sufferings  to  reach  the  land 
of  slavery. 

••  Do  not  believe,  oh  Europeans,  what  men,  eager  for  gain,  tell 
you,  that  the  negro  is  not  like  ourselves,  a  creature  of  heart  and 
sensibility.  It  is  false.  The  poor  negro  loves,  as  we  do,  his  wife, 
this  parents,  his  children,  and  torn  from  all,  curses  his  white 
oppressor^  fcnd  looks  on  them  as  the  destroyers  of  his  race. 

"  Go  amongst  these  newly-captured  slaves,  and  you  will  hear  the 
lamentation  of  the  wife,  torn  from  her  home ;  you  will  see  young 
children  weeping  for  their  mother's  tender  care ;  or  a  timid  young 
girl,  never  yet  looked  on  by  man,  trembling  beneath  the  lascivi- 
ous gaze  of  her  captor,  and  dreaming  of  the  lover  she  has  left  ; 
or,  perhaps  that  lover  is  there,  but  chained  and  powerless,  he  can- 
not save  her  from  bet  doom,  and  gnashing  his  teeth,  he  concen- 
trates his  hatred  in  his  heart,  and  vows  revenge." 

Here  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  were  excited  to  the  most 
violent  degree;  the  orator,  profiting  by  the  pause,  swallowed  a 
glass  of  water,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  an  embroidered 
handkerchief. 

During  this  discourse,  of  which  we  have  given  the  very  words 
as  well  as  the  spirit,  Danton  bad  been  occupied  in  examining 
Marat,  whose  features  had  assumed  an  expression  of  the  most 
profound  irony. 

Malonet  went  on : 

"  I  have  not  yet  told  you  all,  oh  generous  and  gentle  hearts. 
Listen  to  this :  After  the  negroes  on  board  the  vessel  commanded 
by  Captain  Philips,  had  thrown  themselves  into  the  sea,  the 
officers  on  board  proposed  that  the  arms  and  legs  of  some  of 
those  who  remained  should  be  amputated  in  order  to  intimidate 
the  others ;  but  this  the  captain  refused.  '  They  are  wretched 
enough,  let  us  not  add  to  their  misery,'  said  the  captain,  whose 
Humanity  deserves  to  be  recorded. 

"  Many  captains,  however,  when  the  slaves  refuse  food,  in  the 
hope  of  starving  themselves  to  death,  are  beaten  with  iron  bars, 
and  their  groans  and  cries,  terrifying  their  companions,  compel  a 
submission. 

F* 


72  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  This  equals  in  barbarity  the  rack  in  Europe ;  but  the  rack  is 
for  criminals,  whilst  these  tortures  are  executed  on  noble  and 
innocent  men. 

"  I  said  all  captains  were  not  like  Captain  Philips.  Listen  to 
what  I  now  tell  you ;  an  account  of  which  has  been  printed  and 
published  by  John  Atkins,  surgeon  on  board  the  admiral's  ship  of 
the  Ogles  squadron,  which  traded  on  the  coast  of  Guinea.  John 
Harding,  commanding"  one  of  the  vessels  -of  the  squadron, 
perceiving  that  for  some  days  there  had  been  a  mysterious 
whispering  amongst  the  male  and  female  slaves,  imagined  they 
were  plotting  some  revolt.  Without  further  inquiry,  he  ordered 
one  of  the  men  to  be  instantly  killed,  and  having  opened  the 
body,  he  caused  the  heart  and  liver  to  be  cut  into  three  hun- 
dred small  portions,  and  obliged  the  three  Hundred  slaves  remain- 
ing in  the  hold,  to  swallow  one  of  these  pieces,  on  pain  of  a  simi- 
lar fate." 

A  shudder  of  horror  ran  through  the  audience,  but  Malonet 
raising  his  voice  and  hand,  imposed  silence, and  continued: 

"  This  execution  over,  the  captain  ordered  one  of  the  women 
to  be  seized,  had  her  suspended  by  the  wrists,  and  after  flagella- 
ting her  naked  body  until  the  blood  streamed  on  the  deck,  he 
caused  three  hundred  pieces  of  flesh  to  be  cut  from  her  and  dis- 
tributed amongst  her  companions.  The  woman  at  last  expired 
in  the  midst  of  unheard-of  tortures." 

Here,  shouts  of  indignation  burst  from  the  crowd.  Malonet 
again  wiped  his  forehead  and  swallowed  another  glass  of  water. 

At  length  he  was  enabled  to  proceed.  "  To  the  horrors  of  the 
voyage  succeed  the  horrors  of  the  arrival  in  a  strange  climate, 
which  by  fever  and  consumption.decimates  the  negro  population, 
80  that  a  calculation  may  easily  be  made,  from  statistics,  that 
twenty  thousand  negroes  have  been  sacrificed  every  year  during 
the  last  two  centuries,  to  the  cupidity  of  the  whites.  Add  to 
this  calculation  the  victims  of  slavery  in  other  nations  of  Europe, 
and  you  will  have  a  total  of  thirty  millions  of  people,  of  which 
we  the  whites,  of  the  last  two  hundred  years,  have  been  the  exe- 
cutioners." 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  ?3 

A  sentiment  of  horror  pervaded  the  assembly  at  the  thought 
that  even  by  their  carelessness  they  had  been,  as  it  were,  parties 
to  such  cruelties. 

"  Those  who  have  passed  the  horrors  of  the  sea,  and  escaped 
the  ravages  of  the  fever,  are  at  length  taken  to  the  plantations. 
Rising  with  the  sun,  they  work  beneath  its  burning  rays  until 
noon,  then  they  are  allowed  two  hours  to  satisfy  their  hunger 
'  and  to  repose  ;  but  at  two  o'clock,  under  the  influence  of  a 
tropical  sun,  they  resume  their  work  ;  a  moment's  relaxation  is 
interrupted  by  a  heavy  blow  from  the  overseer's  whip,  and  so 
they  work  till  sunset  Then  think  not  that  rest  is  theirs; 
they  have  now  to  attend  to  the  habitations  of  their  masters  ;  the 
cows,  the  horses,  the  sheep,  to  feed  —  so  that  it  is  midnight  before, 
exhausted  from  fatigue  and  hunger,  they  reach  their  miserable 
huts,  .to  take  their  scanty  repast  of  Indian  meal.  And  yet  an 
author  of  talent,  information,  and  celebrity,  has  pretended  that 
the  slaves  were  far  less  unhappy  than  most  of  our  peasantry  ; 
and,  at  the  first  glance,  it  would  seem  that  his  assertions  were 
not  devoid  of  truth. 

"  A  laborer  earns,  in  France,  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  sous  a 
day.  How  can  a  laborer,  with  these  paltry  wages,  maintain 
himself,  his  wife,  his  children,  pay  a  rent,  buy  clothing  and  fuel? 
It  cannot  be  done  ;  and  the  laborer's  life  is  one  of  penury  and 
privation. 

"  Now,  the  serf  or  slave  is  in  the  same  relation  to  the  master 

as  his  horse  ;  the  master  is  as  much  interested  in  the  welfare  of 

the  one  as  the  other,  and  sees  that  both  are  well  fed,  for  his  own 

•  sake  ;  therefore  slaves  are  happier  than  peasants,  who  sometimes 

are  in  want  of  the  common  necessaries  of  life. 

'•  Alas,  this  comparison,  humiliating  as  it  is  between  the 
slave  and  the  horse,  is  still  not  a  fair  one.  -I  will  prove  it  to  you. 

"  Some  few  days  since,  I  found  myself  in  a  cafe,  near  three 
Americans  ;  one  was  reading  the  papers,  the  other  two  were 
"discoursing  about  their  slaves  and  their  plantations. 

"  '  My  slaves  are  worth,  one  with  the  other,'  said  one  of  these 
Americans,  '  about  forty  guineas.  I  make  about  seven  guineas 


74  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

on  each,  supposing  I  feed  them  handsomely.  But  by  diminish- 
ing their  rations  only  two  pence  a  day,  in  the  course  of  the 
year,  I  gain  three  guineas  on  each,  or  three  hundred  pounds  on 
my  three  hundred  negroes,  over  and  above  what  they  brought 
before. 

<;  '  It  is  true  that,  under  this  economical  system,  my  blacks  do 
not  last  more  than  eight  or  nine  years,  but  I  don't  care  for  that, 
for  it  takes  but  four  years  for  me  to  get  back  the  forty  guineas 
he  cost  me,  so  that  all  beyond  is  clear  gain.  If  he  dies  at  the 
end  of  seven  or  eight  years,  well.  I  can  buy  another  in  his 
place,  healthy  and  strong,  out  of  what  I  have  saved  from  the  old 
one's  rations ;  so  you  see  it  is  a. capital  speculation.' 

"This  is  what  he  said,  calmly,  and  with  a  smile,  to  his 
friend,  this  human  tiger !  whilst  I  blushed  to  think  that  I 
belonged  to  the  same  race. " 

"  Oh,  ferocious  Europeans !"  exclaimed  the  orator,  when  the 
murmurs  of  the  audience  had  subsided,  "  oh,  ferocious  Euro- 
peans !  will  ye  always  be  ruthless  tyrants,  instead  of  generous 
benefactors  1  The  men  whom  you  persecute  are  your  fellow- 
creatures,  born  of  woman,  like  yourselves,  the  offspring  of  love, 
fed  from  the  breast  like  your  own  pampered  heirs; — they  were 
created  by  the  same  Omnipotent  Power  ;  his  sun  shines  on  them 
as  on  us.  Like  you,  they  have  heart,  soul,  feeling,  and  intelli- 
gence. They  differ  from  you  but  in  the  color  of  the  skin,  and 
for  this  you  have  dared  to  tear  asunder  the  links  of  affection 
heaven  formed  for  them,  as  for  us.  You  have  enchained  their 
freedom,  degraded  their  race,  and  exposed  them,  by  sea  and 
land,  to  tortures  surpassing  those  of  the  fabled  hell. 

"  Search  the  history  of  the  world,  from  its  most  barbarous  to 
its  most  civilized  times,  and  you  will  find  no  example  of  such 
constant  and  systematic  cruelties.  Can  it  be,  that  in  these  days 
of  progress,  of  most  wonderful  discoveries,  the  result  of  man's 
research  and  man's  intellect— in  these  days  when  narrow  preju- 
dices and  unjust  privileges  are  fleeing  before  the  light  of  philoso- 
phy, you  will  consent  to  be  the  cruel  persecutors  of  a  whole  race 
of  men  ?  No — let  us,  the  most  civilized  nation  on  earth,  give  the 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  75 

example.  Let  France  break  the  chains  of  her  slaves — raise  them 
to  their  rank  of  human  beings— allow  them  the  privileges  of 
thinking  and  feeling;  then  you  will  be  loved  as  fathers,  not 
hated  as  tyrants,  and  the  freed  man  will  till,  with  joyous  and 
willing  hand,  the  ground  the  slave  slowly  dug  whilst  he  watered 
it  with  his  tears !" 

This  was  the  climax — the  enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds — the 
shouts  of  ;l  Liberty  !  liberty !"  rent  the  air.  The  women  waved 
their  handkerchiefs, and  the  orator  descended  from  the  tribune  in 
the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  admiring  and  congratulating  friends. 

During  all  this,  Danton  had  several  times  been  inclined  to  join 
in  the  general  enthusiasm,  but  the  vicinity  of  Marat  had  restrained 
him  ;  for  he  felt,  instinctively,  that  his  cynical  look  implied  con- 
tempt of  the  subject  and  the  orator.  Now  he  turned  round  to 
Marat  and  spoke  for  the  first  time  to  him : 

•Well,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you  think  of  all  this T 

"  I  think,"  replied  he,  "  that  it  would  require  many  such  ora- 
tions and  many  such  assemblies  before  there  would  be  one  step 
taken  towards  reform." 

"  The  cause  he  advocates,  however,"  said  Danton,  unwilling  to 
give  in.  "  is  a  noble  one."  ^  • 

-  It  is,  but  there  is  a  nobler,  still,  to  advocate,  than  that  of  the 
black  slaves  of  America.'' 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  of  the  white  slaves  of  France." 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  Now,  I  have  kept  my  promise,  Danton,  will  you  keep  yours 
and  come  with  me  ?" 

<;  Certainly.     "Where  are  you  going  ?" 

u  You  have  brought  me  to  an  assembly  of  aristocrats,  where 
we  have  heard  the  slavery  of  the  blacks  debated  ;  now  I  will 
take  you  to  an  assembly  of  democrats,  where  you  will  hear  the 
slavery  of  the  whites  discussed.  Come — follow  me."  And  Dan 
ton  and  Marat,  thanks  to  the  general  confusion,  all  remarkable 
as  they  were,  left  the  assembly  unobserved. 


76  INGENUE  J   OR, 


CHAPTER    TIL 

THE     CLUB     OP     THE     RIGHTS      OF     MAN. 

IN  a  few  minutes  Marat  and  Danton  found  themselves  once 
more  in  the  Palais  Royal,  already  far  less  crowded  than  when 
they  had  entered  the  assembly  they  were  now  leaving,  for  it  was 
getting  late. 

This  time  it  was  Danton  who  followed  Marat.  They  proceeded 
rapidly  along  the  galerie  Valois ;  then  Marat  proceeding  through 
a  narrow  alley — he  and  Danton  found  themselves  out  of  the 
Palais  Royal.  The  Rue  de  Valois,  in  which  they  found  them- 
selves, was  silent  and  dark  ;  the  buildings  of  many  of  the  Duke's 
ameliorations,  were  incomplete ;  the  street,  full  of  brick  and  stone, 
was  impassable  for  carriages,  and  difficult  of  access  for  foot  passen- 
gers. Marat,  however,  seemed  familiar  with  all  the  intricacies  of 
this  labyrinth  ;  he  hurried  on,  occasionally  turning  round  to  see 
if  Danton  followed  him,  until  he  arrived  at  a  kind  of  cellar 
accessible  by  a  descent  of  some  eight  or  ten  steps. 

All  was  silent  around,  only  from  the  apertures  of  this  cellar 
was  then  heard  the  murmur  of  many  voices,  and  light  streamed 
from  within,  shewing  to  Danton  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place, 
which  resembled  a  thieves'  den,  rather  than  anything  else.  He, 
however,  followed  Marat,  and  arriving  on  the  last  step,  was 
enabled  to  look  within. 

He  beheld  a  large  vaulted  room,  with  a  stone  floor,  which, 
probably,  before  the  ground  around  had  been  raised,  had  served 
as  a  green-house  for  orange  trees  and  rare  plants.  It  looked,  now, 
like  a  low  tavern,  from  its  aspect  and  its  furniture ;  and  it  was 
here  that  was  held  the  "  Club  of  the  Rights  of  Man."  Into  this 
club,  unknown  but  to  its  members,  none  were  admitted  but  by 
means  of  a  sort  of  masonic  signal.  The  men  sat  at  the  tables 
drinking,  as  in  a  tavern ;  the  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  the 
smoke  of  the  flaring  lamps,  as  well  as  of  numerous  pipes ; 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  77 

around  stood  many,  too  poor  to  taste  the  wine  of  the  establish- 
ment, looking  on  with  envy  and  savage  ill-humor  at  their 
more  fortunate  companions,  whose  appearance,  though  indicating 
poverty,  was  yet  less  sordid  than  their  own. 

Behind  these  people  was  a  sort  of  platform,  on  which  were 
placed  several  arm-chairs,  now  unoccupied,  and  a  long  table  made 
out  of  an  old  counter.  On  this  were  placed  two  candles,  but  one 
only,  in  compliance  with  the  economical  system  of  the  place,  had 
been  lighted. 

All  this  formed  a  strong  contrast  to  the  perfumed  assembly, 
all  silk  and  velvet,  which  Dan  ton  and  Marat  had  just  left ;  they 
had  come  from  the  Paradise  of  the  aristocracy,  into  the  Pande- 
monium of  the  people. 

At  this  moment,  the  most  important  person  seemed  to  be  the 
master  of  the  place ;  for  his  name  was  shouted  in  every  tone, 
from  all  parts  of  the  room. 

"  Wine,  Jourdan,  wine !"  cried  a  man  of  colossal  stature, 
whose  shirt-sleeves,  rolled  up  above  the  elbows,  displayed  a  large, 
muscular  arm,  and  whose  fresh  complexion  indicated  a  butcher, 
that  is.  a  man  accustomed  to  inhale  the  vapors  of  hot  blood. 

••  Here  is  wine,  Monsieur  Legendre,"  said  Jourdan,  putting  a 
bottle  on  the  table ;  "  but  I  beg  to  observe  that  it  is  your  fourth 
bottle." 

"Are  you  afraid  I  can't  pay  ?"  said  the  butcher,  pulling  from 
the  pocket  of  his  blood-stained  apron  a  handful  of  copper  and 
small  silver  coin,  and  in  which  shone  like  stars  two  or  threo 
crowns  of  three  and  six  francs. 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  pay,  Monsieur  Legendre.  You 
are  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  I  am,  and  can  pay  as  much  as 
you  choose  to  drink  ;  but  you  know  you  get  very  touchy  after  the 
fifth  bottle,  and  always  quarrel  at  the  sixth." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do." 
1      "  No.  but  your  adversaries  do." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  them,"  said  Legendre,  with  a  grin ; 
"  but  as  this  is  only  the  fourth  bottle,  there's  nothing  to  fear,  my 
Jack-of-all-trades — for  you  have  tried  all  trades  by  turns ;  you 


78  INOiNUE  ;    OK, 

have  been  a  butcher,  a  furrier,  a  smuggler,  a  soldier,  a  groom  ;and 
now  here,  you  are  at  your  right  trade  at  last,  a  tavern-keeper. 
Wine,  then,  Master  Petit,  as  you  are  now  called :  wine3  then> 
Master  Jourdan,  as  you  are  now  called." 

"  Jourdan,  Jourdan,"  cried  a  voice  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

Jourdan  put  down  the  bottle  and  ran  to  his  other  customer, 
who  was  no  other  than  the  ticket-pedlar  who  had  made  Marat 
and  Danton  known  to  each  other. 

"  What  do  you  want,  my  old  friend  1  have  you  a  ticket  to  give 
me  ?"  inquired  Jourdan  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  give,  for  they  turned  me  away  from  the 
door  of  the  Varietes  this  evening,  under  pretence  that — but  that's 
nothing  to  you." 

"  Of  course,  not  particularly,  as  you  know  I  am  not  at  all 
inquisitive." 

"  No,  but  you  are  hospitable  tho' ;  so  I  tell  you  that  from  this 
evening  you  will  have  to  feed  me  and  this  gentleman  at  the 
public  expense,  until  further  orders.  You  can  do  it,  you  know  you 
get  well  paid  by  the  public." 

Hebert's  companion  was  a  young  man  of  slight  stature,  with  a 
sallow  complexion  and  a  quick,  bright  eye,  whose  costume  offered 
a  strange  mixture  of  poverty  and  tawdry  bad  taste. 

"  What's  this  gentleman's  name  ?" 

"  This  gentleman  is  citizen  Collot  d'  Herbois,  who  has  acted  the 
leading  tragedy  parts  in  the  provinces,  and  who  has  written 
several  comedies.  Now,  as  all  the  places  are  filled,  and  the 
Theatre  Fran9ais  refuses  his  comedies,  Monsieur  Collot  d'  Herbois, 
for  the  present,  has  nothing  to  live  on ;  so  he  comes  to  the  Club  of 
the  Rights  of  Man,  for  every  man  has  a  right  to  be  fed ;  and  he 
says  to  the  Philanthropic  Society,  of  which  we  form  a  part, 
'Take  care  of -me  !  feed  me  !  clothe  me !' 

"  To  do  this  I  must  have  a  line  from  the  President." 

"  Here  it  is,  you  see  it  ia  for  two ;  so  cut  away  and  bring  us 
some  wine,  we  are  not  so  poor  as  we  seem ;  we  can  stand  treat 
to-night." 

So  saying.  Hubert  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  silver 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  19 

money,  which  shewed  that  if  he  had  been  sent  away  from  his 
place,  he  had  not  left  it  empty  handed. 

Jourdan  went  to  fetch  the  wine  ;  but  on  his  way  he  was  stopped 
by  a  111:111  leaning  against  one  of  the  pilasters.  He  was  a  man  of 
nearly  six  feet  high,  dressed  in  rusty  black,  and  with  so  solemn 
a  face  that  it  might  almost  be  called  sinister. 

"  I  want  you  Jourdan." 

'•  What  do  you  want,  Maillard  ?  it  is  not  wine ;  I  am  here," 
replied  Jourdan,  in  a  respectful  tone. 

"  No,  I  merely  want  you  to  tell  me  who  is  that  man  supported 
on  crutches,  who  is  talking  to  our  Vice-President  Fournier,  the 
American." 

And  he  pointed  to  a  man  of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  whose  long 
hair,  falling  on  each  side  of  a  pale,  thin  face,  gave  him  a  look  of 
extreme  suffering ;  his  weak  and  deformed  body  was  supported 
by  two  crutches.  He  was  talking  to  a  square,  bull-dog-looking 
man.  It  was  this  man,  so  celebrated  afterwards,  as  indeed  were 
most  of  those  to  whom  we  introduce  our  readers,  whom  the 
sheriff  Maillard  had  designated  as  Fournier,  the  American. 

"The  man  who  is  talking  to  our  vice-president  ?  wait  a  minute, 
I  cannot  recall  his  name." 

"  I  am  for  equ»lity,you  know,  and  justice.  It  requires  certain 
qualifications  to  be  admitted  here,  and  I  am  determined  nobody 
shall  be  allowed  to  come  in  who  does  not  possess  them." 

''  Oh,  I  remember  all  about  him  now;  he  is  all  right.  See,  he  is 
showing  his  papers  to  Fournier.  He  is  a  judge  from  Clermont, 
who  is  paralytic.  I  think  his  name  is  George  Couthon ;  he  is 
highly  thought  of  by  the  patriots  in  Auvergne." 

"  All  right ;  now  who  is  that  chap  with  fine  clothes,  standing 
on  the  steps?  why  he's  as  ugly  as  the  devil." 

"Oh,  I  know  nothing  about  him,  but  I  know  who  brought 
him." 

"  With  whom  did  he  como  7» 

"  Oh,  somebody  who's  all  right." 

"  Who  then  ? — can't  you  speak  ?" 

"  Why,  he  came  with  Marat." 

a 


80  THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD. 

"  Well,  is  the  wine  coming?"  said  Hebert,  tapping  Jourdan  on 
the  shoulder  with  a  blow  which  made  the  worthy  host  start  off  in 
double  quick  time. 

Hebert,  as  he  returned  to  his  place,  met  a  young  man  who  had 
just  entered,  and  to  him  he  extended  his  hand. 
.   "  How  are  you,  Bordier  ?"  said  he,  "  come  with  me,  and  let  me 
introduce  you  to  a  friend  of  mine,  one  of  your  own  profession." 

Bordier  nodded  his  head  in  token  of  assent,  and  followed  He- 
bert, with  a  grace  peculiar  to  himself,  and  which  never  forsook 
him. 

"  Monsieur  Collot  d'Herbois,  let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friend 
Bordier,"  said  Hubert,  "  the  illustrious  representative  of  Harlequin 
Emperor  of  the  Moon,  which  is  making  the  fortune  of  the  Varietes ; 
for  though  the  piece  is  far  from  being  as  good  as  yours,  it  is 
drawing  all  Paris." 

"  I  witnessed  Monsieur  Bordier's  performance  only  yesterday, 
and  I  applauded  heartily.  I  assure  you."  Bordier  bowed,  Collot 
continued.  "  The  way  in  which  you  say  '  and  yet,  after  all,  I  know 
I  shall  be  hung'  is  irresistible — it  is  impossible  to  imagine  anything 
so  comically  terrible  as  you,  when  you  say  this." 

"  That  phrase  is  an  interpolation  of  my  own.  What  made  you 
think  of  it?" 

"  Why,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  saw  a  man  hung ;  it  made  so  great 
an  impression  on  me,  that  I  dreamed  I  was  hanged  myself,  and 
often  dream  so  now ;  the  very  word  of  hanging  makes  me  shud- 
der. So  you  see  I  wanted  to  try  if  I  could  impart  my  feelings  to 
the  public.  Dugazon,  you  know,  has  invented  forty-two  ways  of 
moving  his  nose,  and  each  one  makes  the  public  shout  j  but  I,  sir, 
by  this  simple  phrase,  in  the  midst  of  the  broadest  farce,  can  make 
my  audience  weep— but  the  meeting  is  going  to  begin." 

In  fact,  the  second  candle  had  been,  lighted  and  the  Vice- 
President  Fournier  seemed  awaiting  Marat, the  President, to  take 
his  seat. 

But  Marat  appeared  to  decline. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Marat,  that  he  appears  to  decline 
to  take  his  seat.?" 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  81 

"  He  wants  to  speak,  probably,"  said  H6bert 

"  Does  he  speak  well,?" asked  Collot. 

"  I  rather  think  he  does,"  replied  Hebert  with  a  wink  at  Bor- 
dicr,  "  and  in  a  style  that  no  one  ever  spoke  before." 

The  President's  bell  was  now  heard,  the  assembly  all  pressed 
forward.  At  a  sign  from  Jourdan,  one  of  the  waiters  closed  the 
door  of  the  cellar,  and  Marat  taking  Dantou  by  the  arm,  conducted 
him  into  the  foremost  ranks,  close  by  the  orator's  tribune. 

Then  the  Vice-President  exclaimed : 
"  Gentk-mcn'.order.the " 

And  the  turbulent  multitude  was  hushed,  though  eagerly  await- 
ing an  opportunity  to  certify  its  sympathy  with  the  orator  or  its 
disapproval,  which  it  was  ready  to  express  with  popular  vche- 


CHAPTEU    VIII. 

THE    WHITE    SLAVES: 

IT  WAS  for  Dan  ton  especially  that  this  assembly  had  an  extra- 
ordinary aspect. 

Danton,  like  all  men  born  in  the  middle  classes,  had  instincts 
which  impelled  him  into  another.  Sensual  in  his  habits,  refined  in 
his  tastes,  ambitious  of  political  position,  intellectual,  full  of  ima- 
gination, Danton's  aspirations  were  all  aristocratic.  Danton,  with 
his  rough  hide  and  hideous  face,  loved  the  white  hands  and  regu- 
lar features  which  in  the  days  of  September  became  to  their  pos- 
sessors the  signal  of  execution. 

Danton  had  just  left  a  reunion  of  all  he  loved — the  light  of 
wax-candles,  the  rustling  of  silk,  the  soft  folds  of  velvet,  the 
waving  plume,  the  flashing  diamond— he  had  inhaled  frajrruncG 
distilled  from  every  flower,  and  that  indescribable  perfume  which 
emanates  from  young  and  lovely  women,  brought  up  in  the  midst 
of  luxury  and  refinement ;  and  now  here  he  is  transported  into 
the  lowest  stratum  of  society,  in  the  midst  of  flaring  candles 
11 


82  INGENUE  ;   OB, 

surrounded  by  men  with  dirty  hands,  covered  with  rags.  Now, 
he  comprehended  the  catacombs  under  this  other  Rome,  and  felt 
by  the  contrast  of  all  around  that  the  elocution  of  the  speakers 
would  be  of  a  far  different  order  to  what  he  had  heard  in  the 
Club  he  had  just  left. 

Bordier.  the  secretary,  now  rose  and  read  to  the  assembly  the 
correspondence  from  the  provinces. 

Gilles  Leborgue,  a  laborer  at  M£checoul  near  Nantes,  having 
killed  a  rabbit  who  was  devouring  his  cabbages,  had  been  taken 
by  the  lord  of  the  manor,  tied  to  a  stake  and  flogged.  The  out- 
raged peasant  appealed  to  the  Club  of  the  Rights  of  Man. 

The  facts  which  followed  all  tended  to  show  the  oppression 
exercised  by  the  great  over  the  little,  such  as  the  following 
instances : 

Pierre,  surnamed  the  bell-ringer,  having  refused  to  do  statute 
labor,  had  been  shut  up  in  an  oven  where  he  had  been  suffocated. 

Barnaby  Lampan,  a  man  with  a  wife  and  six  children,  being  out 
of  work  for  three  years,  had  lived  during  that  time  with  his 
whole  family  on  .grass  and  leaves,  until  he  was  so  weak  that  he 
could  scarcely  write  his  name  to  this  lamentable  declaration. 

At  each  fact  read  by  the  secretary,  Marat  wrung  Danton's  arm, 
exclaiming : 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that.  Canton ;  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

And  Canton  the  sensualist,  Danton  the  epicure,  Danton  the 
voluptuary,  felt  a  kind  of  remorse  take  possesion  of  him  when 
he  thought  of  the  gilding,  the  diamonds,  the  luxury  he  had  left, 
at  the  remembrance  of  the  indignation  of  the  men,  at  the  tears 
of  the  women  for  the  miseries  of  slaves  three  thousand  miles 
away ;  when  in  France,  in  Paris,  under  the  very  feet  of  these  phi- 
lanthropists, their  fellow  countrymen  were  suffering  hardships, 
privations  and  tortures  no  less  terrible,  no  less  fatal  than  those 
inflicted  on  the  negroes. 

The  secretary  read  on,  and  at  each  new  fact  revealed,  the  eyes 
of  the  listeners  flashed  fire.  Each  misery  related  found  its  echo 
in  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened;  each  act  of  injustice  found 
sympathy  among  the  crowd,  each  suffering  had  been  experienced 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  88 

by  this  multitude  now  driven  to  madness  and  ready  to  wrestle 
with  the  power  which  had  so  long  oppressed  them. 

All  waited  with  throbbing  hearts  and  flashing  eye  the  moment 
when,  the  secretary  having  terminated  his  mournful  report,  they 
could  exhale  in  imprecations  the  indignation  which  oppressed 
them. 

At  length  he  finished,  and  there  was  a  rush  towards  the  tri- 
bune. Marat  alone  did  not  move,  but  looking  at  the  Vice-Presi- 
dent, extended  his  arm. 

"Citizens,"  said  the  President,  "  the  citizen  Marat  has  asked 
to  speak  :  he  has  the  floor." 

"  Marat,  Marat !"  shouted  the  crowd.  u  Speak,  we  are  ready  to 
listen." 

And  Marat  came  on  through  the  waves  of  this  sea  of  men, 
which,  like  the  red  sea  for  Moses,  divided  to  let  him  pass. 

He  passed  on,  and  mounting  the  ladder  which  led  to  the  plat- 
form, threw  back,  with  his  large,  ill-formed  hand,  his  long,  black 
hair,  as  though  he  feared  that  one  single  expression  of  his  hideous 
features  should  be  lost,  and  thus  began : 

"  You  have  heard  just  now,  all  you  here  present,  the  cry  of  an 
agonized  people,  of  a  people  who  cry  to  you,  for  in  you  is  their 
only  hope ;  and  you,  in  whom  do  you  trust,  in  whom  do  you  hope  ? 
We  know  whom  we  are  to  fear,  but  we  know  not  in  whom  to 
hope  or  in  whom  to  trust." 

"  Lafayette— Necker !"  shouted  the  crowd. 

t;  Lafayette — Necker !    Is  it  in  these  men  that  you  place  your 

tr.M  ?•'  " 

"  Yea,  yes — in  them." 

"  In  the  one  as  a  general,  and  in  the  other  as  a  minister  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes !" 

"  Then  yon  rely  on  an  aristocrat,  on  a  publican— a  flatterer,  a 
usurer.  These  are  the  men  whom  you  make  gods  and  heroes. 
Do  you  know  what  Lafayette  is  ?  do  you  know  what  Necker  is  ? 
Listen— I  can  tell  you." 

"  Go  on.  Marat,  go  on  !" 

•   Q« 


84  INGENUE  ;  OR, 

A  look  of  hatred,  like  that  of  a  tiger  about  to  seize  his  prey 
glanced  from  the  fiendish  eye  of  Marat. 

"  Let  us  begin  with  Lafayette  :  of  him  there  is  not  much  to  be 
eaid,  for  we  know  little  of  him.  He  is  only  just  beginning  his 
career;  but  even  the  little  I  can  tell  you  about  him,  will  suffice, 
I  hope,  to  put  you  on  your  guard. 

"  Our  hero  was  born  at  Chavagnac,  in  Auvergne.  Ambition, 
vanity,  and  ridiculous  affectation,  presided  at  his  birth.  His 
mother  called  him  her  Rousseau  !  Was  it  because  she  imagined 
him  endowed,  like  the  illustrious  author  of  the  Contrat  Social, 
and  Emilet  simply  because  nature  had  endowed  the  boy  with 
long,  flowing  light  locks?  At  least  so  I  choose  to  interpret  this 
pretentious  soubriquet — for  Lafayette  has  done  nothing  to  deserve 
to  be  compared  with  Rousseau. 

"  Meanwhile  the  young  Marquis,  the  heir,  became  in  the  hands 
of  his  mother  quite  as  spoiled,  as  ignorant,  as  obstinate,  as  mis- 
chievous, as  the  young  heir  of  the  crown  of  France  at  the  pres- 
ent time.  "When  he  became  too  old  for  petticoat-government,  a 
preceptor  was  chosen  for  this  young  hopeful.  "Where  think  you 
these  doating  parents  found  a  tutor  for  their  son  ?  In  their  own 
mansion,  taken  in  out  of  charity,  forgotten  by  his  masters,  des- 
pised by  the  household,  kicked  about  by  the  grooms,  there  lived 
a  Jesuit  priest.  He  swore  like  a  trooper,  drank  like  a  lord,  or 
the  Vicomte  de  Mirabeau.  and  was  as  depraved  as  a  prince  of 
the  blood  royal.  Such  was  the  Mentor  chosen  for  this  fine 
young  Telemachus — this  accomplished  young  Marquis — this  fu- 
ture Rousseau.  It  was  under  the  care  of  this  man  that  the  future 
conqueror  of  Grenada,  the  future  liberator  of  America,  remained 
until  he  entered  the  College  of  Plessis. 

"  Who  was  it  now  who  became  the  guide  of  the  future  hero  ? 
Why,  a  worthy  successor  of  the  former  tutor — another  Jesuit, 
another  rogue — the  fruit  of  the  impure  intrigues  of  an  obscure 
pastry-cook  of  the  Rue  Feydean.  and  an  unprincipled  demi-rep, 
housekeeper  of  the  .Duke  of  Fitz  James.  This  bastard  had 
fawned,  begged  and  flattered  so  well,  that  he  had  risen  to  be  the 


THE   FI*ST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  85 

rector  of  the  university;  and,  putting  the  trencher-cap  on  his 
head,  had  called  the  King  my  cousin.* 

l!  Thanks  to  this  complaisant  master,  our  charming  young 
scholar  with  the  Phoebus  locks  passed  triumphantly  through  all 
the  classes;  thanks  to  a  little  judicious  help,  his  thesis,  "Address 
of  a  General  to  his  Soldiers,"  obtained  the  first  prize.  Now, 
there  was  no  end  to  the  adulation  lavished  on  the  young  laureate. 
This  wonderful  and  precocious  genius  who,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
had  written  an  address  worthy  of  Hannibal  or  of  Scipio,  and 
whose  warlike  disposition  promised  for  the  future  a  commander 
equal  in  the  theory  and  practical  art  of  war  to  the  ancient  heroes, 
to  whom  he  was  now  compared. 

"  And  now  the  women,  those  thoughtless  and  frivolous  beings, 
turned  their  misleading  glances  on  the  hero.  They  saw  he  was 
handsome,  young  and  ardent;  and  they  surrounded  him  with 
seductions  and  flatteries.  They  pursued  him  with  passionate 
protestations  ;  and  from  the  queen  of  Sheba,  who  came  so  many 
hundred  miles  to  share  the  couch  of  Solomon  for  one  night,  there 
is  nothing  a  woman  will  not  do,  to  satisfy  her  lascivious  desires.f 

"  Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  the  Phoebus-haired  hero 
made  his  first  appearance  at  the  court  of  France.  In  this  corrupt 
atmosphere,  whence  shame,  modesty,  decency,  truth  and  sincerity 
are  forever  banished,  our  young  hero  became  every  day  more 
false,  more  impudent,  more  presumptuous,  more  frivolo«S,  above 
all — fur  frivolity  forms  the  basis  of  his  character.  It  was  here 


*  The  privilege  entailed  on  the  position  of  rector  of  a  University  in 
France.-J.  tU  M. 

1 1  beg  my  readers  will  bear  in  mind  that  I  am  reproducing,  both  in 
thi.<  and  in  the  speech  on  (slavery,  the  words  and  sentiments  of  Marat  and  Ma- 
lonet,  and  that  I  have  even  left  the  grow  expressions,  in  order  to  give  the  style 
of  the  day— and  am  not  responsible  for  opinions  or  the  way  in  which  they 
are  expressed.  The  translation  of  these  speeches  was  a  very  difficult 
task,  as  the  originality  of  style  had  to  be  observed.  Having  followed  M. 
Dumas'  wuhes,  the  translator  hopes  she  will  be  excused  if  the  language  and 
sentiments  are  such  as  her  pen  would  not  otherwise  consent  to  transcribe 
— (TRANSLATOR'S  Nora.) 


86  INGENUE  J    OR, 

that  he  contracted  that  habit  he  has  never  lost,  of  having  a  smile 
on  his  lips,  affability  in  his  manner,  and  deceit  and  treachery  in 
his  heart.  Few,  now,  are  dupes  of  his  smiles  and  his  affability, 
thank  Heaven  !  The  mask  has  fallen  from  his  face— the  game 
is  up !  And  yet,  there  was  a  time,  not  far  distant,  when  the 
French  people — that  thoughtless  and  blind  people— would  have 
confided  to  him  their  honor,  their  hopes,  their  liberty — calling 
him,  forsooth,  a  patriot ! 

"  And  yet,  you  will  say,  '  this  man  is  the  companion-in-arms 
of  "Washington,  the  friend  of  Franklin,  one  of  the  liberators  of 
America.' 

"  Ah,  my  friends,  you  should  have  seen  him  as  I  saw  him 
some  few  hours  ago,  stooping  with  obsequious  bow  to  pick  up 
Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Montesson's  handkerchief— offering  his 
smelling  bottle  to  Madame  de  Beauharnais — tying  his  sword- 
knot  round  the  neck  of  Madame  de  Genlis'  poodle — listening 
with  tender  emotion  to  Monsieur  de  Malonet's  description  of  the 
horrors  of  slavery : — then  you  would  have  taken  him  at  his  true 
value,  the  carpet-knight:  then  you  would  have  known  what 
you  had  to  expect  from  this  popular  Saviour,  from  the  ranks  of 
the  aristocracy. 

"  If  Lafayette  really  was  what  he  pretends  to  be,  it  is  here,  and 
not  there,  that  he  should  be — with  us,  not  with  them.  If  he  has 
tears  to  shed,  let  him  shed  them  for  the  sorrows  of  France,  and 
not  for  the  romantic  ravings  of  Monsieur  de  Malonet.  If  it  is 
the  people  he  loves,  let  him  come  amongst  us,  for  we  alone  are 
deserving  of  that  noble  appellation.  Then  I,  who  accuse  him — 
I,  who  denounce  him, — T,  will  go  to  meet  him  :  I  will  open  wide 
the  doors,  and  will  say  to  him,  welcome,  welcome,  oh  you  who 
come  to  us  in  the  name  of  liberty.?" 

Some  few  faint  tokens  of  applause  here  interrupted  the  orator, 
but  they  were  far  from  being  unanimous,  for  Marat  had  attacked 
one  of  the  popular  prejudices ;  and  the  ridicule  with  which  he 
had  tried  to  cover  the  popular  idol  had  not  sullied  it  in  the  eyes 
of  its  worshippers. 

Consequently  Marat  did  not  persist  in  his  attack  on  Lafayette, 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OP   BLOOD  87 

whom  for  two  years,  however,  he  pursued  with  his  sarcasms  and 
his  hatred. 

'•  And  now  for  Necker !  Oh,  blind  and  wilful  people,  who  love 
this  man,  who  laud  him  to  the  skies — hear  what  he  is  : 

"  I  will  begin  by  saying  that  I  never  set  eyes  on  Necker ;  that 
personally  I  know  him  not :  I  only  judge  him  by  his  writings — by 
his  actions,  above  all.  Otherwise  be  is  as  unknown  and  indif- 
ferent to  me  as  an  inhabitant  of  the  other  world,  Crasus  or 
Sojanus. 

"  Twelve  years  ago  Necker  was  known  to  the  world  only  as  a 
banker — an  opulent  banker.  But  that  opulence,  which  ensured 
him  the  consideration  of  the  world,  only  ensured  him  my  con- 
tempt— for  I  knew  the  source  of  his  wealth,  and  I  will  reveal  it 
to  you.  Necker  was  born  at  Geneva,  in  the  same  place  as 
Rousseau.  Like  Rousseau,  he  left  that  city  at  an  early  age — not, 
like  Rousseau,  to  devote  himself  to  the  good  of  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, but  simply  in  the  hope  of  making  his  fortune.  His  first 
step  ^ras  to  become  a  clerk  in  the  house  of  the  banker  Thelusson. 
Ho  played  his  cards  so  well,  that  in  a  short  time  he  bccamo 
cashier.  Then,  with  the  funds  confided  to  him,  be  began  to  specu- 
late. 

"  There  was  also  in  the  house  a  book-keeper,  who  for  his  long 
and  faithful  services,  was  on  the  point  of  being  taken  into 
partnership.  This  man's  name  was  Dadret.  Necker,  on  promise 
of  putting  eight  hundred  thousand  francs  into  the  firm,  was 
preferred  to  Dadret.  Now,  where  did  Monsieur  Necker  find 
such  a  sum  as  this  ?  he  whom  we  know  possessed  nothing  ?  You 
shall  hear  the  source  of  his  fortune. 

"An  Englishman  had  come,  late  one  afternoon,  in  to  the  bank- 
in-  house,  and  had  deposited  with  the  cashier  this  sum  of  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs.  It  was  late,  as  I  have  said — after 
office  hours ;  and  as  it  was  but  a  deposit,  the  chashicr  neglected  to 
enter  it  in  his  books.  Now,  it  so  happened,  that  before  morning, 
the  Enu'li-tiiiiiiii  died — so  the  cashier,  instead  of  registering  the 
deposit,  said  nothing  about  it,  but  simply  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
This  is  the  source  of  his  fortune.  Shortly  after,  by  intriguing 


88  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

and  bribery,  he  contrived  to  find  out  the  politics  of  the  cabinet 
of  St.  James,  and  advised  M.  Thelusson  to  buy  up  the  Canada 
stock.  Those  who  have  not  heard  of  the  tricks  he  employed 
to  discredit  this  stock,  in  order  that  he  might  buy  it  all  in, 
can  find  them  in  M.  Peiinery's  Eulogium  of  Colbert.  Those 
who  have  not  heard  of  his  tricks  to  ruin  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, and  to  enrich  himself,  may  consult  two  notes,  to  be  found 
in  the  Practical  and  Theoretical  treaty  on  M.  Neckcr's  admin- 
istration. 

"  His  admirers  bring  forward,  as  a  proof  of  his  ability,  the 
fact  of  his  having  maintained  himself  in  power  during  five  years; 
five  years  of  war,  without  his  ever  having  put  an  additional  tax 
on  the  people.  But  this  is  a  quibble  on  words — for  what  is  the 
enormous  interest  paid  for  the  various  loans  he  contracted,  but  a 
tax  1  He  has  burthened  the  nation  with  more  than  sixty  thou- 
sand millions  of  interest  per  annum. 

"  Meanwhile,  hi  the  midst  of  her  pastoral  pleasures,  the  Queen 
had  found  time  to  get  into  the  family-way.  Perhaps  you  don't 
know  in  what  consisted  the  pastoral  pleasures  of  Trianon.  I 
can  tell  you.  You  must  know,  then,  that  every  evening,  the 
King  and  Queen,  and  all  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  court,  went 
out  into  the  gardens  of  Trianon,  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air.  In  one 
corner  of  the  gardens  there  was  a  rural  throne — a  king  was 
chosen  from  amongst  the  courtly  throng,  including  the  real  King 
and  Queen.  Well — after  his  election,  this  play-king,  seated  on 
his  grassy  throne,  gave  an  audience  to  his  people,  and  listened  to 
their  grievances  and  complaints.  Do  you  know  what  these 
grievances  were  ?  Parodies  on  your  real  sufferings,  on  your  real 
agonies,  people  of  France  ;  acted  by  courtiers  and  fine,  ladies! 
Now,  the  king,  usually  elected,  was  Monsieur  de  Vaudreuil.  He 
had  a  right  to  choose  his  queen.  Now,  whom  could  he  choose 
but  she  who  knew  so  well  how  to  fill  that  station — Marie  Antoin- 
ette, the  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa — the  Austrian,  as  you  call 
her  ?  When  this  good  king  had  heard  enough  of  the  complaints 
of  his  subjects,  he  would  make  tKem  happy  by  marrying  and  in- 
termarrying them,  according  to  his  fancy.  When  he  had  coupled 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  89 

them  out,  this  good  mock-king  pronounced  the  word  Decampati 
vos  !  and  all  the  couples  took  to  their  heels  and  wandered  over  the 
gardens,  with  the  express  proviso  that  no  more  than  one  couple 
should  remain  at  the  same  time  in  the  same  place,  and  with  the 
express  command  that  no  one  should  return  to  the  mock-court 
under  two  hours.  Now,  it  was  in  the  midst  of  these  innocent 
games,  that,  as  I  say,  the  Queen  was  declared  to  be  in  the  family- 
way,  and  that  in  due  time  she  was  confined,  not  of  an  heir,  a 
Dauphin,  but  of  a  Princess. 

"Now,  for  state  reasons,  it  became  eminently  necessary  that 
a  son  should  be  born ;  and  as  the  Queen  gave  no  further  symp- 
toms of  fecundity,  the  physicians  advised  change  of  air,  mineral 
waters,  and  so  on.  But  M.  de  Necker.  knowing  her  majesty's 
simple  tastes,  advised  the  continuation  of  these  innocent  pasto- 
ral games.  So  they  were  begun  again.  M.  de  Vaudreuil  was 
again  re-elected,  though  his  mock  royalty  cost  the  state  almost 
as  much  as  the  real  one — and  all  went  on  as  before.  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  at,  that  the  cries  of  a  suffering  people  were  stilled 
under  the  laughter  and  merriment  of  this  pastoral  court  ? 

"  Heaven  favored  Necker  and  the  Queen— for  in  due  time,  her 
majesty  produced  the  Dauphin  of  France,  the  heir  apparent.41 

"  These  pastoral  games,  too,  produced  the  same  effect  on  one 
of  the  ladies  of  the  Court  as  on  her  Majesty.  Mme.  Jules  do 
Folignac  also  gave  birth  to  a  son ;  and  the  queen  presented  her 
friend  with  baby  clothes  to  the  amount  of  eighty  thousand  francs, 
whilst  his  Majesty — the  real  Majesty,  I  mean — gave  a  present  of 
one  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  night-caps  of  the  mother.  The 
munificent  royal  couple  wished  to  endow  the  baby  with  the  Duchy 
of  Mayence ;  but  the  economical,  the  austere,  the  conscientious 
Necker^  would  not  hear  of  it.  Remembering,  however,  that  for 
a  similar  refusal  another  minister.  Turgot,  had  lost  his  place,  M. 
Necker,  who  liked  his  place  and  wanted  to  keep  it.  made  a  com- 
promise, and  allowed  the  Queen  to  endow  her  friend'  sbaby  with 


*  The  whole  of  this   portion  of  Marat's  discourse,  which  relates  to  the 
Queen,  U  not  only  historical,  but  word  for  word.— J.  de  M. 

12 


90  INGENUK  ;  OR, 

millions  in  money,  instead  of  the  Duchy  of  Mayence — which 
after  all,  was  only  worth  fourteen  hundred  thousand  francs.  So, 
the  baby  lost  nothing  by  the  exchange,  and  Necker  kept  his 
place  and  the  favor  of  the  Queen. 

"  Having  done  so  much  for  the  Royal  Family,  it  is  not  to  bo 
supposed  that  Necker  neglected  his  own.  He  has  a  daughter. 
For  this  daughter  he  has  amassed  a  great  dowry ;  but  this  dowry, 
amassed  in  France,  is  not  to  be  squandered  here — so  he  gives  his 
daughter  and  her  dowry  to  a  German,  and  his  daughter  is  now 
called  Madame  de  Stael.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  her  ?  She 
s  young,  she  is  clever — full  of  genius,  eloquence  and  imagina- 
tion— devoted  to  her  father,  too.  She  is,  in  short,  exactly  the 
daughter  the  Genevese  banker  would  have  desired.  She  spares 
no  pains,  no  sacrifices — not  any — to  make  friends  for  her  father ; 
and  her  father  spares  no  pains,  no  sacrifices,  to  reward  the 
friends  his  daughter  makes. 

"  Such  is  Necker ;  I  have  already  described  Lafayette  to  you. 
And  now  I  tell  you,  oh  people  of  France !  do  not  trust  your 
wrongs  or  your  liberties  to  either  of  them.  It  would  be  to  cast 
the  fate  of  a  nation  on  the  crest  of  a  drifting  wave — to  build 
your  happiness  on  frivolity,  treacherj^  and  avarice." 

Here  Marat  stopped.  This  time  he  had  succeeded  better  than 
the  first, in  his  attack  ;  for  though  Necker,  the  Protestant  banker, 
was  as  popular  as  Lafayette,  it  is  always  easier  to  degrade  a  man 
of  money  than  a  soldier.  The  contact  with  lucre  is  in  itself  so 
degrading,  that  men,  ashamed  of  the  littleness  it  generates  in 
their  hearts,  are  ever  ready  to  anathemize  it. 

And  so,  at  last,  the  people  really  applauded. 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  91 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE     WHITE     SLATES. 

Each  individual  had  listened  to  this  discourse  with  the  spirit 
of  his  own  convictions.  Jonrdan,  a  fanatic  admirer  of  Marat, 
drew  his  hand  across  his  own  throat,  as  though  he  would  cut  off 
a  head  ;  Legendre  extended  his  naked  arm  in  a  threatning  atti- 
tude; Col  lot  d'Herbois  placed  himself  in  a  theatrical  posture, 
and  kept  nodding  approvingly.  Bordier  was  ecstatic;  Fournicr, 
the  American,  grinned  disdainfully,  displaying  his  teeth,  white  and 
pointed  as  those  of  a  tiger ;  Malliard  remained  indifferent  and 
calm  ;  Couthon  heared  deep  sighs,  throwing  back  his  intellectual 
head,  and  appealing  to  heaven  with  his  large,  melting  eyes. 

As  for  Danton,  he  looked  with  horror  on  this  obscure  and 
unknown  individual,  who  through  the  passions  of  the  multitude, 
boldly  attacked  the  two  idols  of  the  day— Lafayette  and  Neckcr — 
and  that  idol  of  all  time,  the  monarchy. 

To  accomplish  his  end,  he  cared  not  for  the  means— he  stmck 
openly  or  in  secret — truth  or  falsehood  were  alike  to  him.  He 
knew  how  to  adapt  his  style  to  his  audience ;  he  knew  where  to 
irritate  the  bleeding  sores  of  this  suffering,  starving  multitude. 
How  his  words  expanded  the  hatred  pent  up  in  every  breast  for 
the  aristocracy!  how,  as  he  divulged  to  this  degraded,  sordid 
class,  the  brilliant  mysteries  of  the  higher  spheres,  did  he  open  to 
them  a  prospect  of  revenge  for  the  past,  and  retaliation  for  the 
future ! 

Having  thus  predisposed  his  auditors,  Marat  prepared  to  strike 
the  final  blow ;  and,  having  made  a  signal  that  he  was  about  to 
speak,  he  soon  obtained  silence.  Then  he  resumed,  extending 
.both  hands  towards  the  multitude. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  if  two  men  had,  by  lengthened  tortures, 
caused  the  death  of  your  mother,  is  there  a  man  amongst  you 
H 


92  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

who  would  forgive  them  ?  No,  never !  much  less  would  you 
make  them  your  defenders,  your  protectors,  your  idols.  Well, 
these  two  men — the  one  a  plebeian,  and  the  other  a  patrician — have 
killed  your  mother — the  mother  of  us  all — our  native  land  ;  the 
land  on  which  we  were  bcrn ;  the  land  which  yields  us  her  fruits ; 
the  land  in  which  we  are  buried  ;  the  land  which  now  cries  out 
to  us  in  her  agony,  and  which  we,  unnatural  children  that  we 
are,  leave  to  languish  and  die. 

"  But  I  am  not  one  of  these  unnatural  children.  Long  have  I 
been  listening  to  this  cry.  '  We  can  go  no  further,'  said  Colbert, 
when  he  expired  in  1681.  Fifteen  years  later,  those  who  have 
done  the  harm,  expose  its  fatal  consequences  to  the  young  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  and  tell  him  naively  how  the  devastations  to  feed 
the  luxury  of  the  court  had  decimated,  nay  in  some  provinces 
entirely  destroyed,  the  population. 

"  These  statistics  of  death,  compiled  by  the  executioners,  must 
needs  be  exact. 

"  This  was  in  1698  ;  yet  in  1707  we  find  people  regretting  the 
good  times  of  1698.  'There  was  some  hope,  for  there  was'still 
some  oil  in  the  lamp.  Now  there  is  nothing.'  says  an  old 
magistrate,  named  Boisguilbert — and  nine  years  later,  the  illus- 
trious Fenelon  exclaims,  '  The  people  are  reduced  so  low  that 
we  dare  not  hope  they  will  be  patient  any  longer.  The 
machinery  is  worn  out ;  it  will  fall  to  pieces  at  the  first  rude  shock.' 

"  It  is  eighty  years  since  the  author  of  Telemachus  said  these 
words ;  and  yet  the  machinery  still  works,  because  its  springs 
are  oiled  by  the  sweat  of  the  people. 

t:  Look  with  what  joy  the  death  of  Louis  XIV  is  received  by 
the  people — as  though  one  man  caused  the  starvation  of  a  vrhole 
population  !  Hosannah  !  Here  now  comes  into  power  the  good 
Duke  of  Orleans,  the  friend  of  the  people,  as  the  people  think 
him.  Yes ;  but  above  all,  ho  is  England's  friend— and  to  England 
he  makes  over  our  national  honor,  our  commerce,  and  even  our 
State  secrets  ;  and  when  he  dies,  he  leaves  the  country  encumbered 
with  a  debt  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty  millions !  '  If  I  were 
the  people  '  said  he,  '  I  would  not  stand  this  oppression.'  And 


THE    FIRST    DAV3    OF    BLOOD.  93 

when  he  was  told  that  they  had  not  stood  it,  but  that  they  were 
in  open  revolt,  he  exclaimed,  '  They  are  quite  right — I  wonder 
they  have  borne  it  so  long!' 

"Next  cornea  Henry,  the  economical,  nay  miserly,  minister, 
succeeding  the  extravagant  Prince  Regent  of  Orleans.  Now,  in 
1739,  Louis  d'  Orleans,  the  friend  of  the  people,  who  wondered 
tliat  the  people  had  so  much  patience,  once  threw  upon  the 
council-table  a  loaf  made  of  ground  fern  leaves,  saying,  '  this 
gentlemen,  is  the  bread  of  the  people.'  Foulon,  some  years  later, 
who  gives  two  millions  as  a  marriage  portion  to  his  daughter, 
exclaimed,  when  shown  this  very  bread,  '  capital  food !  only  too 
good  for  the  people.  I  should  make  them  eat  grass.  My  horses 
eat  hay,  and  they  are  of  far  more  consequence  than  the  people.' 

"  Things  still  keep  getthig  worse  ;  the  mistresses  of  the  king 
begin  to  get  frightened — Madame  de  Chateauroux  says,  in  1742, 
'  There  will  be  a  change  soon,  unless  the  government  make  some 
reform.' 

"  Oh,  horrible  history  of  famine,  too  much  neglected  by 
historians!  What  pen  could  trace  your  sombre  annals?  Oh, 
wretched  France  !  Who  ever  had  pity  for  your  suffering  people  ? 
Each  year  the  soil — that  soil  which  had  produced  food  for  its 
laborers  during  the  last  six  thousand  years,  now  refused  to  yield 
its  fruits. 

"  And  how  can  she  ?  The  tax-gatherer  having  seized  all  the 
possessions  of  the  peasant,  now  seizes  the  cattle.  The  cattle 
gone,  there  is  no  more  ploughing — no  more  manure — and  poor 
mother  Earth,  the  wheat-crowned  Ceres,  the  Isis  with  the  teeming 
breast  dies  of  exhaustion.  And  now.  poor  victims !  let  me 
remind  you  that  the  rich  and  pampered  class,  who  pay  no  taxes, 
increase  and  multiply  every  day — so  that  every  day  the  taxes  to 
support  their  luxury  fall  heavier  upon  you.  Then,  in  proportion 
as  food  becomes  rare,  and  bread  grows  dear,  it  becomes  the  object 
of  speculation — so  good  a  speculation  that  Louis  XVI  engages  in 
it.  and  becomes  a  flour  merchant !  A  strange  spectacle,  is  it  not? 
— a  king  speculating  in  the  bread  of  his  subjects — a  king  specu- 
lating in  famine — a  King  extorting  from  deaththe  penny  which 


94  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

heretofore  had  been  given  to  Charon  !  Poor  people !  You  feel 
that  you  are  dying  of  want — but  that  you  may  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  whence  comes  this  want,  I  tell  you  that  the 
famine  is  not  the  result  of  any  change  in  the  order  of  the  seasons, 
of  a  change  in  the  atmosphere,  or  of  any  violent  convulsion  of 
nature ;  but  it  is  the  result  of  a  legal  and  carefully  written  docu- 
ment, registered  in  Parliament,  signed  'Louis,'  and  counter- 
signed by  his  minister.  The  people  have  suffered  from  hunger 
under  Louis  XIV,  under  Louis  XV,  and  under  Louis  XVI.  Four 
generations  have  succeeded  each  other — have  lived,  have  died, 
with  unsatisfied  appetite.  Want  has  become  naturalized  in 
France.  Its  parents  are  government  taxation  and  speculation — 
an  unnatural  alliance,  whose  progeny  are  bankers  and  financiers 
— a  cruel  race  for  you,  poor  people,  but  a  race  whom  your  King 
has  ennobled  and  glorified,  and  whom  he  raised  to  the  very  steps 
of  his  throne,  when  he  signed  with  them  the  pacte  de  famine. 
And  now,  poor  people  !  instead  of  bread,  you  have  philosophers, 
encyclopedists,  political  economists  :  you  have  Turgot,  you  have 
Necker !  You  have  poets,  too,  who  translate  the  Georgics — poets 
who  celebrate  "  the  Seasons"— who  write  "  the  Months."  Every- 
body talks  and  writes  about  agriculture.  Meantime,  you,  who 
have  neither  oxen,  horses,  nor  asses,  you  yoke  to  your  broken 
ploughs  your  wives,  your  children,  and  yourselves.  The  law 
forbids  the  seizure  of  the  plough — the  law  forbids  it,  now;  but 
wait  a  little ! — the  law  will  take  this,  also !  Then,  with  the  same 
instrument  with  which  you  have  been  tearing  your  breast  for  the 
last  hundred  and  fifty  years,  you  must  plough  the  earth.  Dying 
and  exhausted,  with  your  bare  hands,  you  must  till  the  dying 
and  exhausted  earth. 

"  Well !  When  that  day  shall  have  come — and  it  is  not  far 
off— the  wife  will  ask  her  husband  for  a  morsel  of  bread,  and  he 
will  scowl  upon  her  without  replying.  Then  the  mother  will 
have  nothing  but  tears  to  give  to  her  starving  children.  Want 
will  have  dried  up  her  breast ;  and  the  sickly  infant  will  draw 
from  it  only  the  blood  of  her  veins.  Then  the  ovens  of  the 
bakers  will  be  empty — then,  to  prolong  your  miserable  lives  for 


THE   FIRST   DAYS    Of   BLOOD.  95 

a  few  short  hours,  you  will  feed  on  offal,  on  unclean  animals— 
too  happy  if,  as  you  carry  the  disgusting  morsel  to  your  mouth, 
your  brother  does  not  snatch  it  from  you.  Then  you  will  dis- 
cover that  you  have  worshipped  false  gods.  Then,  forswearing 
Lafayette  and  Necker,  it  is  to  me  that  you  will  come — to  me, 
your  only  true  friend — to  me,  who  have  foreseen  all  these  cala- 
mities, and  opened  your  eyes  to  the  tyranny  with  which  you  are 
oppressed." 

Ilere  Marat  stopped ;  even  if  he  had  intended  to  proceed,  the 
frenzied  shouts  of  applause,  which  resounded  on  all  sides,  would 
have  made  it  impossible.  He  did  not  descend  from  the  platform 
— he  was  carried  off  it  in  triumph. 

But  at  this  moment,  when  every  hand  which  could  not  touch 
him,  was  applauding,  and  when  every  voice  was  shouting  his 
praise  in  a  tone  which  makes  success  sometimes  as  dangerous  as 
defeat — a  violent  knock  was  heard  at  the  cellar  door. 

••  Hush  !"  said  the  landlord  ;  and.  in  an  instant,  all  was  silent. 
Then  the  patrol  outside  was  distinctly  heard  grounding  arms : 
thca  came  a  second  knocking,  and  a  voice  exclaimed. "  open  !  it  is 
I— Ihibois,  the  Chevalier  du  Guet,  (the  captain  of  the  night 
watch.)  I  am  come  to  see  what  is  going  on  here.  Open,  in  the 
King's  name !" 

At  this  instant,  as  if  by  a  single  breath,  every  light  was  extin- 
guished, and  all  was  immersed  in  the  profoundest  darkness. 
Danton,  uncertain  and  bewildered,  felt  the  grasp  of  a  vigorous 
hand  upon  his  arm  ;  and  a  voice,  which  he  recognized  as  Marat's, 
said  to  him,  "  come,  it  is  important  that  we  should  not  be  found 
here — the  future  has  work  for  us." 

"  Come,"  said  Danton,  "  is  easy  to  say,  but  devilish  difficult  to 
do.  I  can't  see  an  inch  before  me." 

"  But  I  can  see,"  replied  Marat.  ''  I  have  been  so  accustomed 
to  living  in  the  dark,  that  the  abscence  of  light  is  nothing  to  me ;" 
so  saying,  he  dragged  Danton  rapidly  along,  as  easily  as  if  it  had 
been  broad  day.  Danton  followed  him  through  a  small  door, 
and  was  stumbling  up  a  staircase,  when  he  heard  the  door  bat- 
tered in  by  the  butts  of  the  muskets  of  the  watchmen. 
H* 


96  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

At  this  moment  Marat  opened  a  door  which  let  them  into  the 
rue  des  Bons  Enfants.  The  street  was  perfectly  tranquil. 
Marat  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  "  Now," 
said  he,  "  Monsieur  Danton,  you  have  this  evening  seen  two  clubs 
— the  Socialists,  and  the  Rights  of  Man.  In  the  first,  you  heard 
a  discussion  on  the  slavery  of  the  blacks — in  the  other,  on  that 
of  the  whites.  Which  club,  to  your  mind,  best  subserves  the  true 
interests  of  the  nation  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Danton,  "  whatever  may  be  my  opinions,  that, 
having  so  well  understood  one  another  on  our  first  meeting,  we 
ought  to  become  better  acquainted." 

"  Oh,"  said  Marat,  "  I  know  all  about  you ;  but  you  know 
nothing  of  me.  Come,  then,  and  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow." 

"Where?" 

"  At  the  ecuries  of  the  Count  d'Artois.  But  T  must  warn  you 
that  my  breakfast  will  not  compare  with  your  dinner." 

"  I  shall  come  for  you,  and  not  for  your  breakfast.  Good 
night !"  Then,  still  holding  Marat  by  the  hand,  he  said,  "  you 
must  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  of  suffering." 

Marat  laughed.  "  You  are  a  greater  philosopher  than  I  took 
you  for,"  said  he.  "  I  will  tell  you  something  about  myself  to- 
morrow." And  so  they  departed— Marat  returning  to  the  Palais 
Royal,  while  Danton  proceeded  to  the  Pont  Neuf,  by  way  of  the 
rue  du  Pelican. 

That  night  Danton  rested  ill.  Like  Schiller's  diver,  he  had 
plunged  into  unknown  depths,  and  had  discovered  unknown 
monsters. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  97 

CHAPTER    X. 

THE     <COBIES    OF    THK    COURT     DfARTOI8. 

,  WE  have  seen  how  Danton  lived— let  us  now  take  a  glance  at 
the  home  of  Marat.  At  the  end  of  the  rue  neuve  de  Berry,  and 
of  the  faubourg  du  B  ule.were  situated  the  entries,  or  stables,  of 
the  Count  d' Artois.  This  prince,  then  in  his  thirty-first  year — 
that  is.  in  the  prime  of  life — full  of  youthful  ardor,  fond  of  lux- 
ury, yet  desirous  of  hiding  it  from  the  Parisians,  who  were  not 
very  favorably  disposed  towards  him,  thanks  to  his  brother,  the 
Count  de  Provence,  who  wished  to  monopolize  popularity  for 
himself — this  prince  had  ordered  Belanger,  his  architect,  to  con- 
struct such  an  edifice  as  should  be  at  once  an  extravagance  and  a 
speculation.  As  soon  as  the  architect  received  these  orders,  he 
get  out  in  quest  of  an  eligible  site  answering  the  requisitions  of 
his  royal  patron,  and  capable  of  satisfying  the  extravagant  cap- 
rices of  the  Prince ;  yet  apparently  of  so  little  value  as  to  suit 
the  impoverished  state  of  his  exchequer,  which  obliged  him  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  to  have  recourse  to  the  generosity  of 
Louis  XVI — which,  as  is  well  known,  was  not  excessive. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Paris  endeavored  to  rise  from  the 
Procrustean  bed  upon  which  Charles  V  had  confined  it,  and 
which  Henry  II,  and  Charles  IX  had  tried  in  vain  to  lengthen. 
The  giant  city  had  stretched  its  arms  more  than  two  miles  ;  and 
the  true  Parisians  grumbled  excessively  at  the  right  of  citizen- 
ship being  extended  to  these  intruders.  Even  under  Louis  XV, 
when  ideas  were  so  liberal,  the  public  expressed  disapprobation 
at  the  increase  of  the  city,  by  the  incorporation  of  the  surround- 
ing; villages.  To  reconcile  them,  the  government  built  a  Roman 
amphitheatre,  which  was  called  the  Coliseum.  But  it  was  iu 
vain  that  they  embellished  this  edifice  with  all  the  wonders  of 
art.  Vain  were  their  f£tes,  worthy  of  Csesar — vain  were  the 
suspended  gardens,  shaming  those  of  Semiramis— vain  the  con- 
13 


98  INGENUE  J    OR, 

certs,  surpassing  those  of  Nero,  the  most  unmanageable  of  tenors 
— vain  the  saloons,  dazzling  with  light — vain  the  fragrant  groves, 
from  which  even  the  light  of  the  moon  was  excluded.  Nothing 
could  mollify  the  Parisian,  or  make  him  abandon  his  old  haunts, 
in  his  old  accustomed  streets,  on  his  old  quays,  along  which 
passed,  in  rapid  succession,  the  carriages  of  the  court,  and  the 
carts  of  the  market  people — where  danced  the  wandering  artistes 
of  the  street — where  smiled  the  ladies  of  the  pave — and  where 
their  favorite  cafes  yawned  to  receive  them. 

And  yet  the  Coliseum  contained  sixteen  acres  of  ground — had 
its  fountains  and  its  orchestras — and  the  architects  had  promised 
the  King  to  spend  700,000  livres  in  laying  out  the  garden.  They 
had  promised  to  open  it  for  the  marriage  of  Louis  XVI  with  that 
princess  whom  they  now  began  to  hate  as  Queen,  after  having 
worshipped  her  as  Dauphiness.  They  had  promised — what  had 
they  not  promised  ?  As  if  all  that  was  promised  in  the  name 
of  Louis  XVI  must  necessarily  fail,  neither  garden  nor  edifice 
was  finished  at  the  time  of  the  royal  wedding :  while  the  estima- 
ted expense  of  700,000  livres,  following  the  invariable  rule  of 
estimates,  was  suddenly  swollen  to  two  millions  six  hundred  and 
seventy-five  thousand  francs.  And  yet,  notwithstanding  this 
enormous  increase  of  expenditure,  the  Coliseum  was  not  finished. 
It  opened,  however,  trusting  to  chance,  as  most  enterprises  do  in 
Paris.  But  chance  was  not  friendly — the  public  were  obstinate 
and  would  not  admire  the  Colysee,  which  they  said  looked  like  a 
gigantic  mausoleum. 

It  was  then  that  the  architect  of  the  Comte  d'Artois  bought  it. 
With  the  adjacent  ground,  formerly  a  royal  nursery  garden,  he 
set  about  constructing  the  stables  of  the  Count  d'Artois  ;  and  on 
the  remaining  ground,  a  new  quarter  to  Paris.  To  suit  the  taste 
of  the  Prince,  the  houses  in  this  suburb  of  Paris  were  to  be  in 
imitation  of  English  houses,  for  the  Prince  was  bitten  with  the 
prevailing  Anglo-mania.  The  houses  were  to  be  without  any 
architectural  embellishment — more  airy  and  better  arranged  than 
the  usual  crowded  habitations  of  Paris.  By  this  means  the  Count 
d'Artois  was  able  at  once-to  indulge  his  own  tastes  and  to  increase 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  99 

his  revenues.  The  tables  were  therefore  constructed  with  great 
magnificence — such  magnificence,  indeed,  that  public  opinion, 
which  in'  those  days  respected  no  one,  not  even  crowned  heads, 
heretofore  so  sacred,  began  to  say  that  the  Duke's  horses  were 
far  better  cared  for  than  many  men.  There  have  always  been 
harping  critics,  envious  of  the  high  esteem  in  which  horse-flesh 
is  held,  and  who  by  insidious  comparisons  have  proved  that  horses 
have  the  advantage  over  the  human  race. 

The  Count  d'Artois,  however,  palliated  bis  magnificence,  by 
the  popularity  of  his  English  houses,  which  certainly  offered 
great  advantages,  and  which  he  sold  and  let  at  a  very  low  price. 
It  might  also  hare  been  remarked  to  the  jealous  detractors  of 
the  Prince's  stable  establishment,  that  if  his  horses 'were  better 
lodged,  they  were  also  harder  worked,  than  any  other  horses  in 
the  kingdom. 

But  to  return  to  the  stables— they  were  large  enough  to  accom- 
modate three  hundred  horses.  Attached  to  them  were  houses  for 
the  accomodation  of  four  hundred  persons  belonging  to  the  stables. 

Monsieur  Bellnager,  the  the  architect,  had  not  thought  it  necces- 
gary  to  carry  the  English  mania  for  simplicity  into  their  construc- 
tion. He  had  therefore  put  ornaments  and  sculptures  on  every 
place  where  they  could  possibly  be  introduced,  from  the  trophies 
over  the  sentry  boxes  to  the  grotesque  devices  carved  in  the 
beams  of  the  cellars.  In  this  immense  palace,  then,  worthy  of 
the  most  elegant  Prince  of  the  Court,  lived,  in  a  sort  of  royal 
phalanstery,  with  wives,  children,  servants  and  domestic  animals, 
all  the  employed  of  the  establishment 

Now,  among  these  was  the  yeterinary  surgeon,  who  had  a  small, 
but  commodious  apartment  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  inner  court- 
yard, looking  into  the  riding  school,  and  the  trees  with  which  it 
was  surrounded.  Besides  this  apartment,  the  Doctor  had  a  salary 
of  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum. 

To  this  personage,  whom  he  had  for  the  first  time  met  the  day 
before,  Danton  was  about  to  pay  a  visit.  Accordingly,  at  about 
ten  o'clock  on  the  20th  of  August,  1788,  he  presented  himself  at 
the  massive  gates  of  the  Entries  d'Artois.  „ 


100  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"  Monsieur  le  Docteur  Marat  ?"  inquired  he.  of  the  splendidly- 
attired  porter,  who  was  vainly  attempting  to  assume  a  dignified 
attitude,  and  make  his  hands  meet  across  his  ample  belly. 

"  First  vestibule,  staircase  13,  corridor  D3  door  No.  12,"  replied 
this  important  functionary. 

Danton  passed  along  the  court,  gaily  illuminated  with  the 
autumnal  sun — meeting  on  his  way  several  out-riders  in  full  liv- 
ery, booted  and  spurred.  He  heard  as  he  went  on  his  way,  the 
horses  snorting  with  delight  in  the  fresh  hay.  On  all  sides  the 
noise  of  polishing,  the  clank  of  the  silver  chains  and  buckles,  was 
heard.  The  fresh,  pure  water  streamed  from  the  fountains,  falling 
into  marble  basins,  out  of  which  the  horses  drank. 

Danton  looked  curiously  at  all  he  saw ;  and  it  was  in  vain  that 
he  tried  to  remember  the  phlisophical  and  austere  principles 
professed  the  previous  evening  by  the  Club  of  the  Rights  of  Man. 
All  Danton's  aspirations,  we  have  said,  were  for  refinement  and 
luxury ;  and  perhaps  this  time  he  envied  more  the  Prince  than 
the  patriots. 

At  length,  having  found  the  golden  letter  he  sought,  encrusted 
in  the  stone,  he  turned  into  an  arcade,  from  which  he  had  a 
full  view  of  the  riding-school,  with  its  prancing  horses  and  its 
gaily-dressed  grooms. 

Spite  of  himself,  Danton  paused — and  he  paused  too  long  for 
a  man  who  was  disposed  rather  to  despise,  than  envy.  But  soon 
his  republican  principles  came  to  his  assistance,  and  with  one 
bound,  he  attained  the  staircase  B,  rushed  up,  two  stairs  at  a  time, 
hurried  along  corridor  D,  found  door  No  12,  at  which  he  gently 
knocked. 

Spite  of  his  rough  nature,  Danton  felt  awed  by  the  strange 
being  he  was  going  to  visit.  He  would  have  proudly  kept  his 
hat  on  his  head  in  the  presence  of  a  member  of  the  royal  family ; 
but  there  was  a  mystery  in  his  new  friend  which  created  an 
involuntary  respect. 

His  gentle  knock  was  repeated,  without  being  answered ;  and 
the  door  not  being  fastened,  Danton  ventured,  after  a  few  minutes 
to  turn  the  handle  and  enter.  Guided  by  a  smell  of  burning 


THE    FIPST   DATS    OF    BLOOD.  101 

grease  and  charcoal,  he  proceeded  to  a  small  kitchen.  There,  in 
front  of  a  small  cooking  store,  he  beheld  a  woman  quietly  scrap- 
ing radishes,  whilst  at  the  same  time  she  was  watching  the  pro- 
gress of  the  breakfast,  as  it  cooked  before  her.  The  preparations 
for  the  meal  consisted  of  three  cotelettes,  burning  on  one  side,  in 
no  very  savory  grease — some  very  thick  looking  cofiee  in  an 
earthen  pot;  a  little  milk  in  a  broken  saucepan — together  with 
three  rounds  of  bread  toasting  on  the  tongs  laid  across  the  hearth. 

Danton  smiled  as  he  contemplated  the  breakfast  his  friend  had 
prepared  for  him.  and  could  not  help  thinking  of  Grimod  de  la 
Rcyniere's  bill  of  fare.  He  had,  too,  sufficient  penetration  to  per- 
ceive that  Marat  had,  from  motives  of  vanity,  taken  pains,  on  this 
occasion,  to  increase  the  simplicity  of  his  repast ;  and  he  could 
not  help  wishing  his  host  had  a  little  less  vanity  and  a  few  more 
cutlets — particularly  as  his  appetite,  always  colossal  as  his  per- 
son, had  been  considerably  sharpened  by  his  walk. 

However,  he  consoled  himself  by  remembering  that  it  was  not 
for  the  sake  of  the  breakfast  that  he  had  come  all  the  way  from 
the  Rue  du  Paon  to  the  Faubourg  du  Roule — so.  after  finishing 
his  inspection  with  a  look  of  admiration  at  the  grotesque  appear- 
ance of  the  cook,  he  inquired  for  Marat. 

The  cook  did  not  condescend  to  rise ;  but.  telling  him  that 
Monsieur  was  in  his  study,  pointed  with  the  knife  she  held  in  her 
hand  to  the  opposite  door. 


102  INGINUE;  OR, 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE     HOME     OF     MARA 

i  MARAT,  his  head  enveloped  in  a  yellow  and  white  handker- 
chief, was  seated  at  a  square  deal  table,  painted  in  black.  His  arm, 
hairy  and  distorted  as  that  of  .Richard  the  Third,  and  bare  to  the 
elbow,  was  guiding  rapidly  a  short,  stumpy  pen  over  some  rough, 
thick  paper,  such  as  was  much  used  at  the  time,  because  it  would 
bear  many  erasures.  Several  books  were  open  before  him  ;  and 
on  the  floor  were  several  manuscripts,  rolled  up  like  the  MS. 
papyrus  of  ancient  times.  All  around  Marat  was  in  harmony 
with  himself — sordid  and  ugly.  His  penknife  was  held  together 
by  a  string— his  inkstand  was  chipped  and  encrusted  with  ink — 
his  pens  old  and  bitten.  A  box  of  red  wafers  covered  with  dust, 
was  by  his  side — whilst  for  blotting  paper  he  used  his  snuffy  cot- 
ton pocket  handkerchief,  refreshing  his  nose  from  a  horn  snuffi 
box  open  beside  him. 

Marat  had  drawn  his  table  from  the  window  into  a  corner, 
away  from  the  genial  sun,  away  from  the  hum  of  cheerful  voices, 
away  from  the  merry  carol  of  the  birds.  He  disdained  the  influ- 
ence of  earth,  heaven  and  his  fellow  creatures. 

Marat  wanted  no  inspiration — he  knew  his  subject  by 
heart ;  he  wanted  no  repose ;  he  wanted  no  amusements.  To 
work,  to  write,  to  propagate  his  principles,  to  carry  out  his 
revenge  against  the  more  favored  children  of  nature  and  of  the 
world,  was  enjoyment,  rest,  satisfaction  enough  for  this  cynical 
excrescence  of  nature. 

At  the  noise  made  by  Danton's  entrance,  Marat  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  paper,  and  ascertaining  who  it  was,  he  made  a  sign 
with  his  left  hand,  which  implied  permission  for  his  right  hand 
to  finish  the  phrase  it  had  commenced.  But  the  hand  was  not 
swift  to  execute  its  task — so  that,  in  a  few  minutes,  Danton 
exclaimed, 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  103 

u  How  slowly  you  write !  for  a  man  of  your  disposition,  I 
should  have  imagined  you  all  nerve  and  vivacity— whereas,  I  see 
y  )u  are  moulding  your  phrases  as  though  you  were  setting  a 
copy  for  school-boyi.1* , 

Marat,  nowise  disconcerted  by  this  remark,  continued  his  writ- 
ing— making,  however,  a  second  sign  to  Danton,  to  be  patient. 
Presently,  he  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  then  turning  suddenly 
round,  he  presented  both  hands  to  his  visitor,  and  welcomed  him 
with  as  cordial  a  smile  as  his  face  could  assume. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  he ;  "  to-day  I  do  write  slowly." 

"  Why  to-day,  more  than  any  other  ?"  asked  Danton,  coming 
behind  Marat's  chair  and  leaning  over  it,  so  as  to  look  at  the 
papers  on  the  table.  "  Have  you,  then,  days  of  idleness  and 
days  of  activity,  like  the  boa-constrictor  ?'' 

Marat,  who  would  have  been  offended  to  have  been  likened  to 
a  viper,  was  rather  flattered  at  being  compared  to  a  boa-constric- 
tor. 

"  Oh,  I  have  different  habits  of  writing,  according  to  my  sub- 
ject. To-day,  for  instance,  I  take  pains  to  mould  my  phrases, 
choose  my  words,  and  arrange  my  letters  picturesquely,  so  that 
they  may  express  the  feelings  of  the  heart." 

"Do  I  hear  aright?"  exclaimed  Danton.  "Is  it  actually 
Marat  who  is  speaking,  or  is  it  the  shade  of  Vorture  or  Mademoi- 
selle Scudery  ?" 

"  Well,  fellow-laborers,  after  all." 

"  But  not  exactly  models  of  style,"  said  Danton. 

"I  know  of  but  one  model  of  style,  and  that  is  the  child  of 
nature,  the  illustrious  philosopher  of  Switzerland,  the  sublime, 
the  immortal  author  of  Julie." 

"  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  ?" 

"  Yes — Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  He,  too,  wrote  slowly — he  too, 
gave  his  ideas  time  to  descend  from  his  head  into  his  heart,  before 
his  pen  confided  them  to  the  paper." 

••  Is  it.  then,  a  novel  you  are  writing?" 
1  Precisely— you  have  guessed  it.    It  is  a  novel  I  am  writing," 
I 


104  IXGENUE  ;    OB, 

replied  Marat,  his  brow  contracting,  as  if  from  some  painful 
remembrance;  "one,  too,  founded  on  fact." 

"  An  historical  novel,  or  a  domestic  story  ?"  asked  Danton. 

"  Neither,"  said  Marat ;  "  mine  is  purely  a  love  story." 

-"  A  love  story  !" 

"  What  is  there  so  astonishing  in  that  ?" 

This  was  too  much.  Danton,  casting  a  glance  of  contempt  at 
the  dirty. and  deformed  dwarf,  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  But, 
instead  of  feeling  angry,  Marat  looked  down  at  the  manuscript, 
with  an  expression  of  melancholy  tenderness,  and  then  raised  his 
eyes  to  Danton,  with  a  look  of  such  intense  suffering,  that  Dan- 
ton  stopped  laughing. 

t(  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  expected  to  find  in  Mon- 
sieur Marat  a  learned  philosopher,  and  not  a  sentimental  novel- 
ist. I  have  heard  of  you  as  a  great  chemist,  a  great  surgeon,  a 
great  experimentalist  in  natural  philosophy.  I  am  astonished, 
that  is  all,  to  find  a  poet  and  a  knight  errant." 

Marat  merely  smiled,  and  Danton  continued  :  "  I  have  heard 
of  your  books.  Guillotin,  though  he  does  not  always  agree 
with  you,  has  a  great  esteem  for  your  works.  But  they  are  all 
scientific  works,  and  not  works  of  imagination." 

"Ah,"  said  Marat,  "  how  many  writers,  who  are  said  to  possess 
imagination,  really  only  describe  the  experience  of  their  own 
hearts,  and  when  they  seem  to  invent,  only  remember  !" 

This  remark  struck  Danton.  lie  paused  to  analyze  its  mys- 
terious meaning;  but  Marat,  suddenly  rising  from  his  chair, 
exclaimed  :  <;  Let  us  go  to  breakfast."  So  saying,  he  proceeded 
to  the  door  to  give  orders  to  the  servant. 

Danton,  left  alone,  threw  a  hasty  glance  upon  the  manuscript, 
which  Marat  had  left  on  the  table,  and  read  the  title  of  a  novel 
called  "  The  Adventures  of  the  Young  Count  Potocki ;"  the  hero's 
name,  seeming  to  be  Gustave,  and  the  heroine's,  Lucille.  But, 
fearful  of  committing  an  indiscretion,  he  looked  no  further,  but 
began  to  examine  thd  appearance  of  Marat's  study.  The  walls 
were  covered  with  a  frightful  red  and  grey  paper,  partially  hid- 
den by  large,  discolored  maps  which  hung  around.  At  the  win- 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   Of    BLOOD.  105 

dows,  were  shabby  calico  curtains;  two  common  blue  vases 
were  the  only  ornaments  on  the  chimney.  An  old  worm-eaten 
clothes-press  and  a  few  straw-bottomed  chairs,  completed  the 
furniture  of  Marat's  study.  The  sun  seemed  never  to  have  pene- 
trated into  the  chilling  atmosphere  of  this  room — as  though 
aware  that  neither  in  spring  nor  summer  would  it  find  a  flower 
to  ripen,  or  a  polished  surface  to  illuminate.  Marat  now  returned, 
carrying,  with  the  servant  a  table  on  which  was  the  breakfast. 
The  table  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  Dan  ton  and 
his  host  seated  themselves  before  it. 

"  Ah,  ha !"  said  Marat ;  "  you  see  7  don't  spend  twenty-four 
hundred  francs  for  my  breakfast !" 

"  Nonsense  !"  replied  Danton ;"  if  your  publishers  would  pay 
you  a  hundred  Louis  a  volume,  and  if  you  could  write  a  volume 
in  the  same  time  that  I  give  a  consultation,  I  think  you  would 
have  added  another  cutlet  to  your  breakfast." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  can  eat  more  than  two  cutlets  ?" 

*  Certainly  not— but  you  ?" 

'•  Oh,  I  never  eat  meat  in  the  morning— if  I  did  I  could'nt 
work  afterwards." 

"What,  not  even  at  a  novel  ?"  said  Danton,  speaking  very 
lightly  of  what  Marat  seemed  to  take  so  seriously. 

"Precisely,  not  at  a  novel.  If  I  were  writing  a  political 
article,  I  shouldn't  mind  having  the  blood  in  my  head — on  the 
contrary,  I  should  prefer  being  excited;  but  a  novel  is  neither 
written  by  artificial  stimulus  nor  by  the  brain— it  comes  from 
the  heart,  and  must  be  written  fasting." 

"  You  are  a  perfect  Don  Quixote  of  the  quill,  my  good  friend," 
said  Danton,  handing  a  cutlet  to  Marat. 

"  Keep  both  the  cutlets  for  yourself,  my  good  fellow— I  tell 
you  I  never  eat  them  of  a  morning." 

"Oh,"  said  Danton,"  I  ma  like  Garagantua;  I  always  think  I 
shall  not  have  enough,  but  when  I  have  eaten  one  cutlet,  I  am 
satisfied." 

The  fact  was  that  Danton  was  disgusted,  both  with  the  break- 
fast and  the  way  in  which  it  was  dressed.  Common  earthenware 


106  INGENUE  J    OB, 

plates,  chipped  and  cracked ;  steel  forks,  dirty  knives,  iron  spoons 
— table  napkins  of  coarse  unbleached  linen ;  grey  salt  in  a  broken 
saucer ;  thick,  sour  wine  from  a  neighboring  public  house ;  all 
this  did  not  offer  a  very  tempting  repast  to  a  disciple  of  the  illus- 
trious Monsieur  de  la  Reyniere ;  so  he  ate  disdainfully,  like  the 
town-rat  of  Horace,  whilst  Marat  dipped  his  toast  in  his  cafe 
au-lait. 

"  You  are  lodged  here  rent  free,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Certainly— I  belong  to  the  Prince's  household,"  replied 
Marat,  pronouncing  the  word  Prince  with  sneering  emphasis. 

"  Aurea  mediocritas  !"  exclaimed  Danton  rudely. 

Marat  smiled  his  own  peculiar  smile.  <;  Any  port  in  a  storm," 
said  he. 

"  I  should  take  you  for  a  Trappist,  if  I  had  not  seen  you  last 
night  in  quite  another  character— so  wearied  do  you  seem  of  the 
world,  so  ascetic,  so  full  of  remorse." 

"  Not  of  remorse !  I  who  have  the  soul  of  a  lamb,  no,  Danton, 
I  have  no  remorse." 

'•'  Of  regret,  then,  if  not -of  remorse." 

"  Aye,  that  is  another  thing.  No  man,  nowever  strong  minded* 
is  exempt  from  regrets,  no  man  need  be  ashamed  of  manifesting 
them." 

Danton  put  his  two  elbows  on  the  table,  and  leaning  his  head 
on  his  hands,  fixed  his  eyes  on  Marat,  and  said  in  an  ironically 
subdued  voice — 

"  I  cannot  get  over  my  astonishment.  So  after  all,  the  philos- 
opher, the  scholar,  the  reformer,  the  politician,  are  all  merged  in 
the  lover?" 

The  idea  of  Marat  in  love  seemed  so  to  tickle  Danton,  that  he 
terminated  his  phrase  by  an  outburst  of  laughter,  which  shook 
the  table  on  which  he  was  leaning,  and  grated  on  the  feelings  of 
the  deformed  pigmy  before  him. 

Danton  looked  like  an  insolent  Hercules  preparing  to  crush  a 
poor  weak  beetle  who  had  strayed  into  his  path. 


THB   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  107 

CHAPTER    XII. 

WHAT    MARAT    WAS    IK    1788. 

MARAT  soon  recovered  himself.  He  was  not  a  man  to  remain 
long  under  the  imputation  of  weakness.  Like  all  little  men,  he 
bad  the  desire  to  have  a  reputation  for  strength. 

"  In  love  ?"  said  he  to  Danton,  "  and  why  not  ?"  With  these 
words  he  struck  a  blow  on  the  table,  which  made  the  crockery 
jingle.  "  In  love?  yes— I  have  been  in  love,  and  am  perhaps  so 
still.  Laugh,  if  you  please ;  yet  I  cannot  see  what  there  is  laugha- 
ble. Do  you  think  that  God  confided  the  increase  of  the  human 
race  to  men  of  your  stature  alone  ?  Are  there  not  minnows  as  well 
as  whales  ? — ants  as  well  as  elephants,  humming-birds  as  well  as 
eagles?  Have  we  not  the  hazel  by  the  side  of  the  oak? 
Throughout  all  nature,  do  the  smaller  animals,  trees  or  vegetables 
produce  less  than  the  larger  ?  What,  after  all,  is  love,  in  the 
natural  language  ?  Why,  the  pleasure  of  the  senses  applied  to 
a  useful  purpose.  Give  the  soul  its  full  share,  but  leave  to  phy- 
sical  sensation  its  portion  also  ;  for  with  all  your  squeamish  and 
refined  circumlocution,  the  end  of  love  is  a  physical  sensation.  I 
have  seen  through  the  microscope  the  loves  of  the  atoms — surely, 
then,  you  will  allow  to  the  atom  Marat  a  right  to  love  ?" 

As  Marat  spoke,  he  became  perfectly  livid,  his  eyes  bloodshot, 
and  his  whole  person  nervously  agitated,  like  the  strings  of  a 
harp  under  the  influence  of  fire. 

"  Oh !"  said  Danton,  "  you  defend  yourself  before  you  are 
attacked.  I  do  not  deny  you  the  privilege  of  being  in  love." 

••  I  understand  you,  Danton,"  said  Marat,  in  a  melancholy 
tone.  "  This  is  what  you  say  to  yourself — ;  Marat  is  little, 
deformed,  ugly  ;  his  bones  are  twisted,  his  eyes  red  j  his  skin  is 
like  parchment,  his  hair  coarse  and  dull,  his  nose  crooked,  his 
teeth  black  and  broken — he  is  in  fact  a  very  bad  specimen  of 
the  species  homo,  described  by  Pliny  and  Buffon.  How  can  such 


108  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

a  being  as  that  communicate  to  a  woman  that  magnetism,  which 
inspires  a  sensual  passion,  or  that  divine  spark  which  is  love  ?' 
This  is  what  you  in  the  pride  of  your  strength  and  well-developed 
form,  say  to  yourself  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  in  love." 

"  But,  my  good  fellow,"  interrupted  Danton,  embarrassed 

"  Nay,  don't  deny  it.  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion ;  I  do  not 
think  the  portrait  I  drew  of  myself  was  flattered." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  was  exaggerated." 

«  No — only  very  like.  My  mirror  is  not  large,  Danton,  but  it 
suffices  to  shew  me  that  my  face  is  not  one  which  inspires  love. 
Now,  not  being  able  to  deny  this,  you  will  console  me  by  saying 
that  beauty  in  a  man  is  nothing ;  that  it  is  the  intellect,  the  heart, 
and  so  on.  But  I  reject  them  all,  and  I  say  that  those  only  have 
a  right  to  love  who  are  sent  into  the  world,  strong,  straight, 
full  of  life  and  health.  A  healthy  passion  cannot  exist  in  a 
diseased  and  deformed  body,  any  more  than  a  straight  steel  blade 
can  be  sheathed  in  an  old  twisted  scabbard.  Still  I  say  to  you, 
once  on  a  time,  I  loved,  for  once  on  a  time  I  had  a  right  to  love, 
and  to  be  loved." 

Then  Danton,  putting  aside  all  sarcasm,  leant  over  towards 
Marat,  and  gazed  into  his  face,  as  though  trying  to  read  there  the 
mystery  he  began  to  suspect. 

"Ay,  search  well,"  said  Marat,  with  profound  melancholy  ; 
"  see  if  in  this  mis-shapen  skeleton  you  can  find  the  remains  of 
the  Apollo  Belvidere.  Anatomists  say  that  in  the  most  degraded 
races,  a  trace  of  the  god-like  form  remains.  Can  you  find  it  in 
me  ?  And  yet,  it  once  did  exist.  Once  this  form  was  full  of 
symmetry  and  youth  ;  once  these  bloodshot  eyes  were  pure  and 
bright-,  once  this  yellow  and  compressed  forehead  was  white  and 
round,  shaded  with  hyacinthine  curls — a  true  poet's  forehead — 
one  which  inspired  love — suac  tetce  amorum.  Yes,  Danton.  once 
my  limbs  were  like  a  young  Endymion.  These  dirty  deformed 
hands  were  white  and  distinguished  ;  these  broken  stumps  were 
like  pearls,  within  a  mouth  worthy  of  a  woman's  kiss.  Yes.  once 
1  had  beauty,  wit,  and  a  kind,  warm  heart.  Then,  then,  had  I 
not  the  right  to  love  and  to  be  loved  ?" 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  109 

Danton  extended  his  hand  to  Marat  in  perfect  astonishment, 
and  murmured,  "  Can  it  be  true  ?" 

"  Exactly  true,  as  I  have  had  the  honor  of  telling  you,"  replied 
Marat,  who,  notwithstanding  all  his  philosophy,  could  not  but 
feel  mortified  at  Danton's  astonishment. 

"  Then  you  must  have  met  with  the  same  accident  as  Scarron?" 

"What!  fallen  into  a  frozen  river  all  feathers  and  satin,  and 
come  out  all  rheumatism?  Well,  I,  however,  am  still  luckier 
than  Scarron — for  he  lost  the  entire  use  of  his  legs,  which  Cou- 
thon  will  do  before  he  is  a  year  older ;  but  then  Couthon  is  hand- 
some, and  I  hideous.  However,  twisted  and  distorted  legs  like 
mine,  are  better  than  none  at  all." 

"  Come,  Marat,  tell  me  how  this  metamorphosis  happened." 

"  Tell  you  how  the  metamorphosis  happened,  my  good  fellow  ?" 
— tell  you  how  tender,  how  sincere,  how  confiding  I  was— how 
fond  I  was  of  all  that  is  sweet,  brilliant  and  resounding — how 
T  worshipped  the  soldier,  the  poet,  woman  and  fine  clothes — all, 
in  fact,  the  false  glitter,  the  empty  sounds  of  the  world  ?" 

11  How  came  you,  then,  to  hate  and  despise  all  you  once  esteemed 
and  loved  ?" 

"  Aye !  All  that  I  possess  no  longer.  What  will  be  the  use  of 
my  telling  you  all  this  ?" 

"To  prove  to  me  the  truth  of  an  observation  you  made  a  fevr 
minutes  ago,  that  men  of  imagination  often,  when  they  seem  to 
invent,  only  remember." 

"  Ah !  that  observation  struck  you,  did  it  ?" 

So  saying,  Marat  arose,  and  dragging  his  slipshod  slippers  after 
him,  he  took  a  pen  and  wrote  down  the  phrase  Danton  had 
quoted,  and  then  took  up  the  manuscript  of  the  Adventures  of 
Count  Potocki ;  whilst  Danton  arranged  himself  as  comfortably 
as  he  could,  in  the  large  straw  arm-chair  in  which  he  was  seated. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  ought  to  begin  by  doing  ?" 

"  Not  by  reading  me  the  whole  of  that  immense  manuscript, 
I  hope?" 

"Why  not?" 

"What!  a  Polish  novel?" 


110  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"Who  told  you  it  was  a  Polish  novel?" 

"  The  title,  to  be  sure." 

"  The  hero  may.  for  all  that,  not  be  a  Pole." 

"  Are  you  then  the  hero  ?  and  is  the  woman  you  loved  LucileT 

"  Perhaps." 

"  It  is  written  in  letters,  like  the  Nouvelle  Heloise." 

Marat  colored ;  it  seemed  as  though  Danton  had  accused  him 
of  plagiarism. 

"  Forms  belong  to  everybody,"  said  he,  "  and  do  not  prevent 
originality." 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  going  to  accuse  you  of  plagiarism,  I  only 
intended  to  say  that  the  volume  seems  pretty  thick,  and  that  I 
scarcely  think  we  could  get  through  it  during  the  time  we  have 
to  remain  together.  Besides,  as  I  have  not  the  honor  of  being 
personally  acquainted  with  Potocki,  why,  I  could  wait  for  another 
opportunity  of  hearing  his  adventures ;  whereas,  if  they  were 
Marat,  I  would  even  go  from  here  to  Warsaw  or  to  Cracow  to 
hear  them.  By  the  bye,  you  have  traveled,  have  you  not  ?" 

"I  have." 

"  You  have  been  to  London,  to  Edinbugh.  If  I  mistake  not, 
your  first  book  was  published  in  England,  was  it  not  ?" 

"Not  only  in  England,  but  in  English—  The  Chains  of 
Slavery." 

"  You  have  lived,  too,  in  the  north?" 

"  In  Poland— yes." 

"  Then  do  not  tantalize  me  any  longer,  Marat.  After  I  heard 
you  speak  last  night,  I  said  to  you,  '  you  must  have  suffered  much' 
— upon  which  you  asked  me  to  come  to  breakfast.  I  came,  not 
to  breakfast,  but  to  hear  what  you  tacitly  promised  to  tell  me. 
Here  I  am — lift  up  the  veil  of  mystery  which  hides  the  past — 
let  me  know  the  Marat  of  by-gone  years.  As  for  the  Marat  of 
the  future,  all  France  will,  I  feel,  know  him." 

-Marat  thanked  Danton  by  a  look  and  a  gesture  for  his  eulo- 
gium.  Had  Danton  in  1788  foreseen  1793,  he  had  perhaps  not 
made  it. 

Marat  began  to  collect  his  thoughts ;  and  like  a  hero  of  Homer, 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  Ill 

to  prepare  himself  to  relate  his  adventures.  In  order  to  clear  his 
voice,  he  swallowed  the  milk  which  Dahton  had  left  in  his  cup. 

He  drank  like  a  cat  or  a  fox,  looking  obliquely  all  the  time, 
whilst  the  pulsation  of  the  temporal  arteries  was  visible  at  every 
respiration.  Having  finished,  he  wiped  his  lips  with  the  back  of 
his  hand,  threw  back  his  disheveled  hair,  and  began. 

Danton,  in  order  the  better  to  observe  Marat,  took  his  place  in 
the  window,  so  that  the  light  might  strike  fully  on  the  counte- 
nance of  Marat :  but  the  latter,  under  pretence  that  the  light 
hurt  his  eyes,  drew  the  curtains — so  that  Danton,  not  being  able 
to  see  clearly  the  workings  of  the  narrator's  countenance,  closed 
his  eyes  and  concentrated  all  his  faculties  on  interpreting  the 
various  intonations  of  Marat's  voice,  as  he  proceeded. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE     PRINCE     OLIN8KI. 

MARAT,  too  closed  his  eyes ;  there  was  a  moment's  pause,  as 
though  Marat  had  been  listening  within  himself  to  the  voice  of 
other  days.  At  length,  abruptly  lifting  his  head,  he  said : 

'•  I  was  born  at  Neufch&tel,  in  Switzerland,  in  the  year  1774. 
I  was  ten  years  old  when  my  glorious  fellow  countryman  Rous- 
seau pronounced  his  first  political  opinions  in  L*  Discour  sur 
rEgaliti.  I  was  twenty  when  Rousseau,  proscribed  and  poor, 
sought  refuge  in  his  native  land.  My  mother,  an  ardent  admirer 
of  philosophy  and  its  great  apostle,  educated  me  according  to 
Rousseau's  Contra*  Social.  My  father,  a  minister  of  the  Gospel, 
infused  into  me,  at  an  early  age,  all  the  learning  he  possessed 
—so  that  at  five  years  old,  I  wanted  to  be  a  schoolmaster ;  at 
fifteen  a  professor,  and  an  author  at  twenty. 

Like  Rousseau.  I  left  my  country  at  an  early  age.  I  ha.  I  !V- 
confused  idea  of  many  things — of  the  simples  and  pTants  of  our 
mountains.  With  this  knowledge,  I  possessed  an  ardent  tempci- 


112  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

ament,  idomitable  industry,  sobriety  and  generosity.  I  went 
first  to  Germany  and  then  to  Poland." 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  Germany  ?" 

"  To  get  a  living ;  and  I  got,  I  confess,  a  very  poor  one." 

"  Yes — literature  is  meagre  fare. 

t:  In  my  case  it  would  have  been  actual  starvation,  only  that 
fortunately  I  possessed  several  foreign  languages — English,  for 
instance,  amongst  others — which  I  speak  as  well  as  my  native 
tongue." 

"  Yes — I  remember  you  telling  me  that  you  gave  lessons  in 
English  to  some  Scotch  ladies.  Probably  the  title  of  your  work, 
The  Chains  of  Slavery,  alluded  to  the  chains  these  fair  dames 
forged  for  you." 

Marat  stared  at  Danton  with  profound  astonishment.  Danton 
colored,  for  he  felt  ashamed  of  the  triviality  of  his  remark. 

<;  Upon  my  word  I  am  amazed !  Why,  Florian  and  Bertin 
could  not  have  said  that  better — it  is  quite  a  pretty  conceit; 
worthy  of  them,  but  it  sits  badly  upon  Monsieur  Danton's  broad 
shoulders." 

"Well,"  said  Danton,  "I  will  not  interrupt  you  again,  since 
you  don't  seem  to  relish  my  remarks." 

"  You  had  better ;  for  you  will  find  neither  madrigals  nor  pas- 
torals in  my  history  as  it  proceeds,  I  can  assure  you.  But  to 
continue  my  narrative.  I  must  tell  you  that  though  I  added  to 
my  teaching  the  practice  of  medicine,  I  made  out  but  poorly — 
so  I  resolved  to  leave  Germany  and  to  penetrate  into  Poland. 

"  It  was  in  1770 ;  I  was  twenty-six  years  of  age.  I  had  a 
few  thalers  at  the  bottom  of  my  purse,  and  a  great  deal  of  hope 
at  the  bottom  of  my  heart — besides  some  excellent  letters  of 
introduction. 

"  Stanislaus  Augustus  was  then  king  of  Poland.  He  was  a 
learned  man — nay,  he  is  still  a  learned  man  ;  for  he  is  yet  living 
and  seeking  consolation  in  philosophy  and  the  pursuits  of  science 
for  the  insults  heaped  upon  him  by  Russia,  Prussia  and  Austria. 

"If  you  "will  allow  me  an  interruption,  which  is  neither  pas- 
toral nor  madrigalesque,  I  should  say  that  Stanislaus  had  bettef 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOa  113 

try  to  find  consolation  ;  for  his  terrible  mistress  Catherine,  after 
having  given  him  a  throne,  seems  inclined  to  take  it  from  him 
piece  meal." 

"  I  approve  of  your  interruption  this  time,  and  agree  perfectly 
with  you.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Stanislaus  will  soon,  like  the 
great  Cond6.  be  glad  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  the  cultiva- 
tion even  of  carnations,  for  he  is  not  likely  to  have  a  kingdom  to 
rule  much  longer.  But  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  Stanislaus 
Augustus  reigned  peaceably,  devoting  much  of  his  time  to  liter- 
ature, encouraging  the  arts  and  patronizing  them  liberally.  I, 
poor  and  unknown,  yet  nothing  daunted,  the  countryman  of 
Rousseau,  scientific  like  D'Alembert,  a  philosopher  of  the  Holba- 
chian  school,  which  was  penetrating  everywhere,  emigrated  to 
Poland — trusting  to  my  robust  health,  my  joyous  youth,  a  hand- 
some person.  You  wonder  where  these  are  vanished — you  will 
soon  know,  for  that  is  my  history.  Sanguine  and  presumptuous 
as  I  was,  it  appeared  to  me  that  if  Stanislaus  Poniatousky  had  by 
his  good  looks  obtained  a  throne  from  his  mistress,  it  would  not 
be  difficult  for  me  to  obtain  from  Stanislaus  an  income  or  a  pension 
of  twelve  hundred  francs.  Possessed  of  this,  I  intended  to 
return  to  France,  and  to  satisfy  my  ambition  by  becoming  either 
a  great  politician  or  a  great  physician,  according  to  circum- 


"  A  very  sensible  plan,  and  difficult  only  in  the  beginning,  like 
most  things." 

"  You  shall  see  how  I  managed  ;  I  will  disguise  nothing  from 
you.  Imagination  is  not  my  forte — besides,  I  think  the  bare 
truth  will  be  sufficient  to  interest  you." 

••  It  is  singular  you  should  have  no  imagination  ;  with  a  head 
so  wide  across  the  temples." 

"  I  do  not  say  I  have  no  imagination."  said  Marat ;  "  I  merely 
say  that  my  imagination  is  applicable  to  politics.  I  am  like 
the  cat  in  the  fable,  who  knew  but  one  trick,  whilst  the  fox  knew 
twenty.  When  I  was  poor,  I  gave  lessons ;  that  was  all  T  could 
think  of— and  I  lived  as  only  I  could  have  lived,  upon  what  they 
brought  me." 

15 


114  INGEXUE  J    OR, 

"  What  did  you  teach  ?" 

"  Almost  everything — for  there  are  few  things  I  do  not  know. 
I  have  written  more  than  twenty  volumes  on  different  chemical 
discoveries.  I  think  there  is  no  system  in  philosophy,  politics 
or  metaphysics,  which  I  have  not  treated," 

11  The  D— 1 !"  said  Canton. 

"  It  is  as  I  say,"  continued  Marat,  in  a  tone  which  admitted  no 
reply.  "  I  gave  lessons  in  everything — in  Latin,  in  French,  in 
English,  in  drawing,  in  mathematics,  in  chemistry,  in  natural 
philosophy,  in  medicine,  in  botany ;  in  fact,  in  all  that  a  youth- 
ful appetite,  that  great  incentive  to  industry,  could  suggest  to 
satisfy  its  robust  cravings. 

"  So,  off  I  started  for  Poland.  I  did  not  know  the  language  ; 
but  in  Poland,  every  one  speaks  Latin,  and  in  that  I  was  at 
home." 

"  Did  you  find  any  scholars,  amongst  these  warlike  Jagelloes?" 

"I  had  letters  of  introduction  to  several  of  the  officers  of 
Stanislaus'  court.  One  of  these  was  to  the  lord  of  six  villages,  a 
staroth  named  Olinski ;  he  happened  to  be  in  Warsaw  when  I 
arrived  there. 

"  The  Poles  are  naturally  hospitable  and  affable.  They  have 
great  pfide  in  claiming  sympathy  with  the  French.  When  the 
Prince  had  read  the  letter,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  examined  me 
from  head  to  foot.  Probably  the  result  of  the  examination  was 
favorable,  for  he  made  me  a  courteous  bow.  The  Prince  was  a 
man  of  extraordinary  stature.  His  face,  though  pale,  was  hand- 
some ;  his  hair  grey,  though  his  eyes  were  still  bright  and  pierc- 
ing. I  was,  as  I  am  still,  a  little  man,  scarcely  five  feet  four — 
for  I  have  not  altered  in  this  respect.  The  Prince,  with  his  fine, 
commanding  person  and  deep-toned  voice,  considerably  awed  me. 
Besides  which,  I  really  was  ingenuous  and  warm-hearted,  perfect- 
ly unformed  in  character,  and  ready  to  take  any  impression  cir- 
cumstances might  give  me. 

"  '  We  have  many  Frenchmen  here,'  said  the  Prince,  at  length ; 
'  but  they  are  all  military  men.  The  King  generally  sends  them 
either  to  his  friend  the  Empress  or  to  the  insurgents,  who  are 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  115 

beginning  a  religious  war  in  Podolia.  Arc  you  acquainted  with 
the  history  of  this  sect?' 

" '  I  confess  I  am  not,'  replied  I,  somewhat  mortiBed  to  bo 
obliged  to  confess  my  ignorance.  The  Prince,  on  the  contrary, 
seemed,  delighted  to  find  that  there  was  something  a  savant  did 
not  know. 

"  '  So  you  really  do  not  know  anything  of  Sollick,  of  Massal- 
ski.  and  all  these  furious  Catholics ? 

"  '  I  never  heard  of  them.' 

" '  So  much  the  better— you  will  make  an  excellent  prccepjtor, 
and  will  not  add  lessons  in  politics  and  religion  to  your  instruc- 
tions. I  have  a  pupil  for  you.' 

••  Imagine  my  delight !  A  pupil — and  such  a  pupil !  Probably 
the  heir  of  the  Prince,  one  of  the  greatest  nobles  of  the  laud. 

"  '  I,  however,  have  qne  condition  to  make  with  you.' 

«"  What  is  that,  my  lord?' 

"  'That  you  will  not  deliver  your  letters  to  the  King ;  that  you 
will  not  try  to  see  him.' 

u  I  looked  at  my  new  patron  with  an  expression  of  astonish- 
ment, which  he  understood,  for  he  replied  : 

'•  •  What  is  there  astonishing  in  what  I  wish  ?  Is  it  not  natural 
that,  having  had  the  pleasure  of  being  introduced  to  »•  young 
man  of  yonr  distinguished  merit,  I  should  wish  to  keep  him  to 
myself  ?  We  are  of  a  jealous  disposition  in  Poland  ;  therefore  if 
you  will  come  with  me,  and  take  charge  of  the  pupil  F  will  give 
you,  you  shall  be  treated  like  a  prince  and  receive  a  salary  of  a 
thousand  florins  a  year.' " 

"  A  capital  offer,"  said  Danton. 

"  Capital.  So  you  may  imagine  that  I  did  not  hesitate  an 
instant ;  and  that  very  day,  alas !  I  became  an  inmate  in  hia 
palace." 

Marat  sighed  profoundly,  and  Danton  said, 

"  I  understand  why  you  say  alas ;  for  you  probably  soon 
repented  your  hasty  acceptance  o£  the  Prince's  offer.  Your  pu- 
pil was,  no  doubt,  some  half-civilized  barbarian,  an  unlicked 
K 


116  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

Moldavian  cub,  who  obeyed  you  but  little,  and  beat  you  a  great 
deal." 

"  You  are  very  far  from  the  truth."  observed  Marat. 

"  Was  your  pupil  what  Juvenal  describes  as  Arcadius  juvcnis?^ 

"  My  pupil  was"  a  young  girl  of  fifteen — lovely,  full  of  talent,  of 
wit,  of  genius,  of  poetry,  of  spirit ;  a  fairy,  an  angel,  a  divinity." 

"  Qh,  oh !  this  is  getting  interesting  !"  said  Danton ;  "  Lucille 
is  going  to  fall  in  love  with  Potocki,  eh  ?" 

"  It  was  to  be  expected,  was  it  not?"  replied  Marat,  bitterly. 

<;  Particularly  after  St.  Preux  and  Julie,"  said  Danton,  some- 
what ironically. 

"Have  patience,"  said  Marat,  "and  you  shall  see  that  I  am 
no  plagiarist.  I  promised  you  a  story — it  will  be  more  dramatic 
than  you  can  imagine." 

"  What !  instead  of  St.  Preux  and  Julie,  is  it  another  edition 
of  Abelard  and  Heloise  you  are  going  to  give,  me  ?" 

"  Neither  one  nor  the  other,  my  good  friend  ;  you  are  going  at 
a  great  rate." 

"  No ;  but  I  am  deeply  interested,  and  my  imagination  gallops 
apace.  Do  go  on !" 

"  Well  then,  to  continue : 

"  You  may  imagine  my  astonishment  when  I  was  introduced 
to  my  pupil.  I  was  perfectly  overcome.  My  shyness  over- 
whelmed me  with  blushes ;  for  the  first  time  I  had  a  poor  opinion 
of  my  own  merits,  when  I  looked  at  Cecile — for  the  first  time  I 
felt  my  obscurity,  my  poverty,  and  my  inelegance,  as  I  contrasted 
them  with  Cecile's  graceful  manner,  and  beheld  her  magnificent 
costume,  all  velvet  and  sables." 

"  Cecile,  then,  is  the  name  of  your  heroine  ?  I  thought  it  had 
been  Lucile." 

"  In  the  novel  it  is ;  in  reality  it  was  Cecile.  Cecile  was  the 
name  of  one  of  the  great  sovereigns  revered  by  the  Poles — but 
no  queen  was  ever  more  worthy  of  the  name  than  the  pupil  now 
presented  to  me,  and  no  queen  ever  inspired,  instantaneously,  such 
veneration  and  devotion  as  Cecile  did  to  her  preceptor. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  117 

CHAPTER    XIV. 

CECILE    OLINSKA. 

" '  CECILE.'  said  the  Prince, '  this  gentleman  will  instruct  you  in 
French,  English,  natural  philosophy,  and  the  sciences.  He  will 
remain  here  a  year,  aud  in  that  time  will  teach  you  all  he 
knows.' 

'•  I  looked  at  the  Prince  in  astonishment,  to  see  if  he  spoke 
from  ignorance,  or  merely  to  try  me. 

" '  Do  not  feel  surprised  that  I  should  limit  your  stay,  or  expect 
Cecile  to  learn  so  much  in  the  course  of  one  year.  I  do  so 
because  I  know  her  capacities,  her  genius,  which  surpasses  all 
you  ever  heard  of,  as  you  will  find  when  you  begin  to  teach  her.' 

M '  My  Lord,  I  do  not  presume  to  doubt  the  genius  of  Mademoi- 
selle Olinska ;  I  merely  meant  to  observe  that,  however  apt  a 
pupil  may  be,  it  still  requires  a  certain  amount  of  time.' 

"'Oh,  we  can  so  distribute  our  studies  as  to  put  six  years  into 
one.  During  this  year  you  will  not  lose  sight  of  Cecile  for  an 
instant.  In  Paris,  (I  have  been  there,  and  I  know  what  I  say,) 
girls  go  to  court,  to  parties,  to  assemblies;  they  pay  visits, 
reserving  only  an  hour  or  two  for  study ;  all  the  rest  of  their 
time  is  given  to  frivolities.  The  Princess  Olinska,  on  the  coa- 
trary,  will  dedicate  the  twelve  hours  of  the  day  to  study.' 

" '  Twelve  hours,  my  Lord  !  surely  that  is  too  much ;  the 
Princess  will  suffer  from  such  close  application,  will  she  not  ?' 

"  '  Perhaps  you  are  right,  doctor,'  said  the  prince,  with  a  smile ; 
for,  though  very  rarely,  he  did  sometimes  smile.  '  Twelve  hours 
in  succession  would  weary  any  head,  however  well  organized,  if 
always  applied  to  the  same  study.  But  by  varying  your  pursuits, 
the  result  will  be  different.  Now,  you  will  begin  the  day  by 
:  ;u> ying  the  princess  in  a  two  hours  ride  on  horseback.  On 
your  return,  you  will  breakfast  with  her ;  then,  until  twelve,  you 
can  study  composition  and  mathemathics.  Then,  you  shall  get 


118    '  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

into  the  princess'  carriage ;  and  whilst  you  are  taking  an  airing, 
you  can  continue  your  instructions,  through  the  medium  of  con- 
versation. At  dinner,  in  the  evening,  in  the  reception  hall,  in 
our  hunting  parties,  you  will  always  be  by  her  side;  and  you  see 
that,  being  always  in  the  company  of  so  learned  a  man,  she  will 
without  much  effort,  actually  be  studying  and  learning  the  whole 
of  the  twelve  hours.' 

"  I  felt,  while  the  Prince  was  speaking,  as  though  I  were 
dreaming,  or  in  the  ecstatic  delirium  which  hatchis  or  opium 
confers  on  its  devotees.  I  knew  not  how  to  reply,  yet  was  dying 
to  speak. 

"All  this  while,  Cecile  had  been  steadily  looking  at  me,  with 
a  cold,  calm,  scrutinizing  glance,  which  pierced  my  soul.  Even 
now,  I  remember  with  a  shudder,  the  strange  and  fearful  fasci- 
nation ef  that  glance.  She  was  tall,  and  beautifully  formed.  Her 
hair,  of  a  beautiful  golden  color,  fell  in  heavy  tresses  around  her. 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  our  mountain  lakes.  She  sat  perfectly 
still,  with  her  round  white  arms  crossed  before  her,  in  silence. 
She  might  have  been  a  statue,  so  still  did  she  remain.  I  had  not 
seen  her  enter;  I  had  not  observed  her  bosom  heave,  or  her  eye- 
lid tremble  ;  I  was  so  bewildered,  that  I  had  a  sort  of  insane  idea 
that  she  was  not  a  woman,  but  the  guardian  angel  of  the  family, 
whose  image  the  Poles  place  in  their  houses,  as  the  Romans  did 
their  Lares — protecting  spirits  of  the  peace  and  prosperity  of  the 
domestic  hearth. 

"  This  father,  who  spoke  so  much — this  daughter  who  spoke  so 
little,  appeared  to  me  to  have  something  supernatural  about 
them.  I  could  not  understand  my  feelings.-' 

"  I  could  have  interpreted  them  for  you,"  said  Canton  ;  "  but 
go  on — your  history  is  very  interesting.  These  names  in  ski 
and  ska,  are  quite  romantic.  Do  you  remember  the  episode  of 
Lodoiska,  in  Louvet  de  Coubray's  Faublas?  Have  you  read 
Faublas  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Marat,  "  I  never  read  obscene  books." 

•'  Obcene,  do  you  call  it  ?"  replied  Danton  ;  t;  why,  I  think  it 
no  worse  than  The  Nouvdle  Heloise." 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  119 

"  It  is  blasphemy  to  compare  the  two  books,"  said  Marat, 
actually  turning  pale. 

«  No— we  had  much  better  go  on  with  your  story,  which  is 
better  than  any  novel." 

"  My  stupefaction,"  said  Marat,  resuming  his  narrative,  "  was 
so  great,  that  I  really  do  not  remember  how  I  got  out  of  the 
room.  I  did  not  recover  myself  until  I  found  myself  alone  in  a 
large  room  where  there  was  a  table  spread  with  every  luxury." 

"  Why,  your  story  begins  exactly  like  the  Arabian  Night*, 
my  dear  Marat !  Your  Polish  Count  received  you  as  the  ogres 
and  geniis  in  eastern  history  always  receive  their  victims." 

"  I  saw  nobody  but  obsequious  and  smiling  servants,  that 
evening;  and,  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  I  slept 
soundly  all  the  night — dreaming,  however,  of  all  that  had  passed, 
and  feeling  still,  even  hi  sleep,  the  influence  of  the  glance  with 
which  Mademoiselle  Olinska  had  magnetized  me. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

MUTUAL      INSTRUCTION. 

u  When  I  awoke,  I  found  on  a  chair  at  my  bedside,  a  complete 
suit  of  clothes,  a  great  deal  better  suited  to  the  climate  than  those 
I  had  worn  on  my  arrival. 

"  I  hastened  to  put  them  on ;  and  I  cannet  describe  to  you  the 
pleasure  with  which  I  examined  myself  in  the  glass,  after  I  was 


"The  costume  became  me.  It  consisted  of  a  close-fitting 
braided  frock  coat,  trimmed  with  fur ;  purple  velvet  breeches, 
polished  boots,  with  tassels  and  siver  spurs;  and  a  hat  with  a 
silk  tassel.  I  found,  besides,  on  my  table,  a  hunting  knife  with 
an  ivory  handle,  beautifully  carved  ;  a  riding  whip — in  fact,  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  gentleman  of  those  days  and  those  climes. 
Thus  accoutered,  I  felt  myself  inferior  to  none  on  earth ;  and 
K* 


120  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

much  as  I  hated  Voltaire,  I  felt  inclined  to  exclaim  with  him : 
'  It  is  not  in  birth,  but  in  dress  alone,  the  difference  lies.'  Whilst 
I  was  lost  in  admiration  of  my  own  person,  an  outrider  came  to 
tell  me  that  the  Princess  was  waiting  for  me. 

"  It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  month  of  March. 
The  gray  dawn  shone  upon  nothing  but  snow  and  ice.  Just 
behind  the  mountains  a  faint  pink  tinge  indicated  the  east. 

"  I  descended  the  staircase  rapidly,  and  arrived  in  the  court. 
By  the  light  of  the  torches  held  by  the  servants,  I  could  see  the 
Princess  in  her  ermine  robe,  already  in  the  saddle  on  her  black 
horse. 

"  My  senses  were  again  beginning  to  get  confused.  I  had  not 
yet  become  accustomed  to  the  miracles  heaped  on  me.  This  fair 
and  delicate  girl,  already  up,  and  ready  in  the  cold,  grey  morning  ; 
the  numerous  attendants ;  the  neighing  horses ;  all  contributed 
to  confound  me. 

"After  all,"  said  Canton,  "the  most  wonderful  thing  to  mo 
will  be  to  see  you  on  horse-back.  Cornell  will  hold  your  stir- 
rup— up  with  you !" 

"At  last  I  contrived  to  see  through  all  this;  the  horse  which 
was  destined  for  me,  was  a  beautiful  Ukraine  steed,  with  a 
small,  intelligent  head,  and  a  thick,  flowing  mane.  He  was  im- 
patiently pawing  the  ground ;  but  when  I  approached  him,  he 
ceased,  and  turned  to  look  at  me.  For  my  part,  I  looked  on  him 
as  I  should  on  an  adversary  against  whom  I  was  about  to  try 
my  strength  ;  but  after  one  moment  of  apparently  mutally  satis- 
factory examination  between  the  horse  and  myself,  I  vaulted  into 
the  saddle." 

"  What !  are  you  a  good  horseman  ?" 

"  Not  a  good  horseman  ;  but  from  a  child,  accustomed  to  get 
on  any  horse  I  could  find." 

"  Oh."  said  Danton,  "  I  am  disappointed  ;  I  was  in  hopes  you 
were  going  to  fall  off  the  other  side." 

"  Have  patience— all  in  good  time  !  I  mounted  my  horse  ;  the 
Princess,  still  without  uttering  a  word,  started,  and  I  followed." 

''  Were  you  alone  ?"  asked  Danton. 


THE    FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  121 

*  Not  precisely ;  the  outrider,  who  had  summoned  me  from 
my  room,  followed  us  with  a  loaded  carbine.  My  horse,  who 
had  not  finished  his  study  of  my  character,  took  it  into  his  head 
to  try  my  skill  by  manifesting  a  determination  to  return  home, 
instead  of  proceeding.  I  thought  the  moment  favorable  for 
applying  the  riding  whip  I  had  found  in  my  room ;  but  no  sooner 
^had  my  Bucephalus  felt  the  blow,  than  he  shied  violently— de- 
positing me,  by  this  movement,  deep  into  the  snow." 

"Oh,  oh!  I  expected  this;  but  such  a  catastrophe  is  not 
very  romantic.  I  was  afraid  your  novel  was  going  to  begin  like 
so  many  others,  by  your  saving  the  life  of  Mademoiselle 
Olinska." 

"  Oh,  do  not  be  afraid  ;  my  story  is  unlike  every  other— you 
cannot  foresee  its  termination,  or  its  details.  When  Mademoi- 
selle Olinska  saw  me  struggling  in  the  snow,  she  turned  grace- 
fully round  in  her  saddle  and  looked  at  me.  I  expected  to  hear 
her  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  I  tried  to  bo  as  little 
ridiculous  as  I  could ;  but  the  Princess  remained  as  silent  and 
ioitnoveable  as  ever. 

" '  She  cannot,  however,  do  less  than  ask  me  whether  I  have 
hurt  myself,'  said  I,  as  I  got  up  and  remounted  my  horse,  which 
the  outrider  was  holding  by  the  bridle.  But  I  was  mistaken. 
Mademoiselle  Olinska  never  opened  her  lips,  but  proceeded  when 
I  was  ready,  as  quietly  as  before. 

"  In  a  few  minutes  my  horse,  not  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
his  first  experiment,  tried  another  trick.  This  time  he  threw 
me  onto  a  rough  place  full  of  flints  and  stones.  My  head,  instead 
.  of  sinking  comfortably  into  the  snow,  came  in  rude  contact  with 
the  hard  granite.  My  head  and  shoulders  were  injured,  and 
drops  of  blood  oozed  through  my  hair. 

"  Cecile  was  but  a  few  feet  off.    She  saw  me  fall ;  she  saw 

the  attendant  help  me  to  rise ;  she  saw  me  turn  pale ;  she  saw 

my  handkerchief  get  red  with  blood,  as  I  pressed  it  to  my  head  ; 

-  but  she  gave  not  the  slightest  sign  of  emotion.     I  was  so  vexed 

that  I  exaggerated  my  sufferings,  and  pretended  to  be  more  hurt 


122  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

than  I  really  was.  I  wanted  to  see  how  far  her  indifference 
would  go." 

"  She  was,  perhaps,  dumb,"  suggested  Danton. 

"By  no  means,"  replied  Marat;  "for  she  at  last  opened  her 
lips,  and  let  fall  these  Latin  words  : 

<; '  Prave  equitas  !' 

"  '  You  are  a  bad  equestrian  /'  was  that  all  ?" 

"  That  was  all." 

"  Commend  me  to  the  tenderness  of  the  Sarmatian  women !" 

"  And  with  rage,  I  seized  the  horse  by  his  mane,  and  raised 
my  whip. 

"  Cecile  shrugged  her  shoulders,  gave  her  horse  the  rein,  and 
threw  these  words  at  me,  as  an  adieu : 

"  'Cave,'  said  she,  '  te  onidet." 

"  And  she  was  right.  The  horse  would  have  killed  me,  had  I 
struck  him.  Mademoiselle  Olinska  said  no  more;  whilst  I, 
mortified  and  enraged,  remounted  my  steed.  I  watched  him 
closely,  this  time,  and  at  the  first  symptom  of  another  attempt 
to  get  rid  of  me,  I  dug  my  silver  spurs  into  his  sides.  Surprised 
at  this,  my  horse  started  at  full  gallop.  I  maintained  my  seat, 
by  holding  finnly  on  by  the  mane.  Breathless,  at  length  he 
began  to  relax  his  pace  ;  but  I  plied  my  spurs,  until,  after  a  long 
race,  as  rapid  as  Mazeppa's,  he  acknowledged  himself  vanquished, 
and  gave  up  the  struggle.  Three  times  during  that  morning, 
did  the  devilish  horse  try  this  game ;  but  at  last,  he  gave  it  up, 
and  took  his  place,  gravely  and  peaceably  behind  the  Princess, 
Who  did  not  appear  to  pity  the  beast  any  more  than  she  had  tho 
man. 

"  From  this  hour,  I  imagined  I  should  hate  this  woman  ;  and 
I  never  turned  my  head  towards  her.  She,  meanwhile,  seemed 
to  enjoy  her  ride,  caressed  her  horse,  put  him  through  his  paces, 
and  returned  home,  with  a  most  masculine  appetite  for  break- 
fast." 

"  The  devil,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Danton,  "  was  in  the 
woman.  Her  lesson  was  a  harder  one  than  the  first  St.  Preux 
gave  to  Julie." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  123 

"Yes,  but  you  forget  that  St.  Preux  taught  Julie  things  of 
which  she  was  ignorant  ;  whilst  I  began  by  showing  my  ignor- 
ance of  a  science  in  which  she  was  an  adept. 

"  I  knew  I  was  in  a  false  position  ;  though  I  must  say  that  she 
did  not  make  me  feel  it—  for  she  took  not  the  slightest  notice 
of  me  during  the  whole  time  we  were  at  breakfast.  I  consoled 
myself  in  thinking  that  my  turn  would  come  as  soon  as  we 
began  our  studies  —  a  superiority  in  manual  exercises  not  indi- 
cating always  a  superiority  in  mental  endowments.  I  did  not 
rely  on  the  father's  opinion  of  his  daughter's  extraordinary 
genius. 

(;  Looking  at  her  almost  with  a  look  of  defiance,  I  said,  in  a 
somewhat  aggressive  tone,  in  latin, 

"  '  Princess,  will  you  ask  your  father  to  absolve  me  from  my 
engagement  ?* 

u  '  Cur  ?'  replied  she,  looking  intently  at  me. 

"  '  Because  I  engaged  to  give  you  twelve  hours  of  study  and 
conversation,  four  of  which  are  gone  by  without  your  having 
once  condescended  to  speak  to  me.  If  I  were  a  serf  or  a  lacquey, 
I  should  take  my  salary  and  content  myself  with  obeying  your 
caprices  ;  but  I  am  a  man  —  I  work  for  what  I  earn  —  I  do 
not  beg  for  it  Either  you  must  become  my  pupil,  or  I  must 
leave.' 

••  She  still  continued  to  look  at  me  with  the  same  fixed  glance. 

"  '  Quid  vocatur  gattict  equiu  ?'  said  she. 

«  '  Cfuval,'  replied  L 


"'Horse.' 

"  And  so  on,  until  she  had  asked  me,  in  French  and  English, 
everything  concerning  a  horse,  his  harness  and  caparisons.  Then 
pausing,  she  seemed  to  reflect,  and  again  spoke  : 

"  '  Quid  vocatur  gallice,  Sanguis  T 

"'Sang.' 

«  <  Auglicd  V 

"'Blood.' 

"  Quid  gallice,  capilli?' 


124  -  INGENUE  J    OB, 

" ( Cheveux.' 

" '  Anglice  ?' 

" '  Hair.' 

"And  so  on,  until  she  had  gone  through  the  whole  of  the 
anatomy  of  the  human  body.  Then,  after  a  few  moments'  pause, 
she  asked  me  to  explain  the  theory  of  the  circulation  of  the 
blood,  which  I  did  in  the  plainest  terms,  as  well  as  various  other 
matters  concerning  the  anatomy  and  system  of  the  body,  with- 
out even  calling  a  blush  to  her  cheek.  Then  she  proceeded  to 
ask  me  to  translate  into  English  and  French  between  thirty  and 
forty  verbs,  as  many  substantives,  and  a  few  adjectives,  chosen 
from  among  the  most  energectic. 

"  She  listened  most  attentively ;  made  me  repeat  the  words 
she  did  not  understand;  asked  me  the  spelling  of  some  of  them. 
After  about  two  hours  of  this  conversation,  she  rose  and  retired 
to  her  apartment,  leaving  me  at  liberty  to  go  to  mine." 

"  A  queer  woman,"  said  Danton. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE      PLOT     THICKENS. 

'I  REMAINED  several  hours  in  my  room,  trying  to  arrange 
my  thoughts,  and  to  imagine  some  plan  of  conduct.  My  reflec- 
tions were  constantly  interrupted  and  intruded  upon  by  the  image 
of  Mile.  Olinska,  with  her  serene  forehead  and  her  cold,  calm 
eyes.  Her  queenly  dignity  awed  me.  She  had  found,  too,  means 
of  humbling  me  during  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  more  than  I 
had  ever  been  humbled  in  my  whole  life  before. 

"  I  hated  her,  yet  I  confessed  her  superiority.  She  seemed  born 
to  command,  and  I  felt  she  was  not  to  be  resisted,  and  that  was 
what  irritated  me. 

"  At  length  I  was  summoned  to  dinner.  I  descended  to  the 
dining-room,  much  more  calm,  and  thoroughly  prepared  for  all 
emergencies. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  125 

B  Cecile  was  at  the  table,  seated  between  two  of  her  relations, 
of  whom  she  took,  however,  very  little  notice.  Towards  the 
middle  of  dinner,  Cocile  recommenced  her  questions  and  I  my 
answers.  There  was  such  want  of  method,  such  pretension,  so 
much  pedantry  about  all  she  said,  that  I  determined  to  alter  this 
superficial  mode  of  study  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  determined  to 
make  her  put  down  on  paper  what  I  taught  her,  and  to  have 
grammars  and  dictionaries  bought  immediately.  All  my  projects 
were,  however,  useless,  as  you  will  see." 

"  What  happened  V* 

"  Why,  before  I  thought  myself  sufficiently  at  liberty  to  ven- 
ture on  any  proposition,  after  about  a  month  of  the  desultory 
lessons  I  have  described— riding,  walking,  and  at  dinner — one 
fine  morning  at  breakfast  Mademoiselle  Olinska  addressed  me 
in  the  purest  French. 

•  .Monsieur  Paul,' said  she — for  I  am  a  namesake  of  Bernardin 
St.  Pierre's  hero ;'  now  that  I  know  French  and  English,  will  you 
teach  me  another  language  ?'  " 

*  What !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  actually  spoke  French  ln 
"  As  well  as  you  or  I  do.     She  had  learned  it  flying,  as  it  were» 

and  with  that  facility  inherent  to  the  Sclavonic  races,  she  had 
learned  the  pronunciation  and  meaning  of  all  the  words  she  had 
heard.  In  fact,  everything  that  was  once  told  her  was  engraven 
on  her  brain  as  on  steel.  A  few  words  were  sufficient  for  her 
— her  mind  resembled  those  miners  who,  piercing  a  hole  in  a 
rock,  deposit  in  it  a  powder,  and  then  take  no  more  account — 
but  presently  an  explosion  takes  place,  the  rock  is  split,  and  the 
powder  has  done  what  the  strength  of  a  thousand  men  could  not 
have  accomplished.  All  these  detached  and  desultory  studies 
had  produced,  in  one  short  month,  the  result  it  had  taken  me 
twenty  years  of  haixi  study  to  attain.  What  you  told  this 
woman,  she  never  forgot,  were  it  a  sentence,  a  page,  a  chapter, 
or  a  volume.  Such  was  my  pupil ;  what  do  you  think  of  her  ?" 
'•  Well— I  think  I  feel  something  like  admiration  for  her." 
<:  It  was  evident  that  Mademoiselle  Olinska  was  gratified  at 
my  apparent  admiration  of  her  wonderful  talents  j  but  her  vanity 


126  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

did  not  betray  itself  in  the  usual  way.  Her  manner  never  altered 
towards  me  in  the  least ;  she  was  as  disagreeable  as  ever." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  know  that  she  was  flattered  by  your 
admiration,  if  her  manner  never  changed  ?" 

"Remember,  my  dear  satirist,  that  Cecile  was  proud  and 
haughty,  and  was  satisfied  with  the  impression  she  saw  she  had 
made  on  me,  and  wanted  nothing  further."  •_...  t 

!'     "  Then  she  had  made  an  impression  ?" 
« I  confess  she  had." 

"  Come — we  are  getting  on,  I  see." 

"  Let  me  continue,  for  it  is  getting  late.  I  have  sketched  the 
father  to  you ;  I  have  painted  the  daughter  to  you  in  full  length ; 
you  have  imagination  enough  to  fancy  the  country,  the  castle, 
and  the  enjoyments  of  a  spring  and  summer  passed  in  the  midst 
of  riches,  luxury  and  intellectual  occupations  and  intercourse. 

"  I  was  fascinated,  charmed— I  was  madly  in  love.  The  more 
I  knew  of  Cecile,  the  more  profound  was  my  admiration.  I  bowed 
to  her  superiority,  I  acknowledged  it  in  all  things,  except  in  heart 
and  love.  I  gave  her  knowledge — I  taught  her  all  I  knew — I 
unveiled  for  her  all  the  mysteries  of  science — all  I  asked  was  a 
little  love,  a  word  of  tenderness." 

"  Did  you,  then,  avow  your  love,  like  St.  Preux  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  Marat,  "  I  was  too  well  aware  of  the  proud  spirit 
of  the  woman  I  loved,  to  venture  on  that.  The  haughtiness  with 
which  she  accepted  my  attentions,  the  cold  glance  with  which  she 
met  my  ardent  gaze,  kept  me  ever  at  a  humble  distance  from 
this  high  patrician  dame.  She  never  allowed  me  for  an  instant 
to  forget  the  difference  of  rank  which  separated  us.  At  the  end 
of  three  months,  my  pupil  knew  the  extent  of  my  science.  At 
the  end  of  six,  she  had  measured  my  intellectual  capacities ;  it 
only  remained  for  her  to  read  my  heart— and  when  she  should 
do  this,  what  would  happen,  then  ?" 

"  Was  she,  then,  made  of  marble  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  always  imagined  that  if  she  had 
ever  loved,  she  would  have  loved  me." 

"  Why,  then,  did  she  not  ?" 


THE   FIUST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  127 

"  I  cannot  tell  you— it  is  a  mystery.  Cecile  disdained  to  accept 
my  assistance  either  in  her  exercises  or  her  walks.  Sometimes 
I  fancied  I  hated  her ;  but  there  was  a  fascination  which  impelled 
me  to  love  her,  and  a  majesty  about  her  which  forbade  my 
declaring  my  love." 

"  Ah  !   there  is  the  romance  of  the  thing !" 

"  There  is  the  devil  of  the  thing,  you  mean." 

"  Go  on." 

"  Spring  had  passed  on — it  was  now  midsummer.  '  I  was  no 
longer  mad  with  love,  but  with  passion,  with  desire.  She  was  so 
beautiful,  so  cold,  so  bewitching,  so  proud,  and  so  gifted,  that  my 
love  was  perfect  idolatry.  One  day  I  was  by  her  side  in  an  open 
carriage,  which  she  was  driving  herself.  My  temples  throbbed, 
my  heart  beat,  my  mental  suffering  had  reacted  on  my  physical 
organization ;  I  could  endure  no  more :  '  Princess.'  said  I,  in  a 
tone  and  with  a  look  no  woman  ever  mistakes,  'in  mercy,  stop 
the  carriage— I  am  ill.'  • 

"  She  put  her  silver  whistle  to  her  mouth,  and  the  savage  steeds, 
accustomed  to  the  sound,  stopped  instantly. 

"  « What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?'  said  she,  turning  towards  me, 
with  a  scrutinizing  glance. 

'•  '  I  dare  not  tell  you,  but  it  would  be  generous,  it  would  be 
womanly,  in  you  to  guess.' 

*  '  You  have  not  taught  me  yet',  said  Cecile,  contemptuously, 
'  to  guess  enigmas.' 

" ' I  see  from  jcour  tone  that  you  have  understood  me ;  yet  I 
have  not  offended  you — I  have  said  nothing  as  yet.' 

" '  Allow  me        *  I  hesitated. 

« '  Well,  Sir  ?' 

••  •  Allow  me,  then,  before  I  incur  your  displeasure,  to  leave 
you  forever.' 

" '  You  are  at  liberty  to  do  as  you  please.  Go  if  you  like,  stay 
if  it  suits  you.' 

"This  was  too  much ;  I  felt  maddened.  The  Princess,  without 
paying  me  any  further  attention,  put  her  horses  to  their  full 
speed.  In  so  doing,  she  dropped  her  whip.  Excited  to  madness, 
L 


128  INGENUE  J    OR, 

I  threw  myself  from  the  carriage — not  to  pick  up  the  whip,  but 
with  the  intention  of  passing  under  the  horses'  feet,  that  the  car- 
riage might  go  over  me.  The  demon,  ever  cool  and  collected. 
had  foreseen  my  intention,  and  turned  aside  the  horses,  so  that 
my  coat  only  was  torn,  and  I  was  untouched. 

•"  I  looked  up  at  her,  as  I  lay  on  the  ground.  She  was  so  pale, 
so  proud,  so  unmoved,  that  I  despised  myself  for  loving  such  a 
being.  I  got  up. 

"  :  Quid  ergo  ?'  said  she,  with  supreme  disdain. 

"  '  Ecce  flagellum :  recisse.'  replied  I,  as  calmly  as  I  could — 
extending  the  whip  to  her.  As  I  did  so  my  hand  touched  her's. 
The  contact  thrilled  me  like  that  of  a  red-hot  iron.  I  still  grasped 
the  whip.  Impatient  at  being  kept  waiting,  she  leaned  forward 
to  grasp  it,  and  in  so  doing,  her  cheek  touched  my  forehead.  I 
almost  lost  my  senses.  A  sickness  came  over  me — a  mist  was 
before  my  eyes.  Meantime  Cecile,  highly  irritated,  whipped  her 
horses  until  they  started  off  at  a  fiery  pace,  snorting  and  neighing 
like  wild  creatures.  We  went  at  this  speed  for  more  than  ten 
leagues — she  never  speaking  a  word — T  incapable  of  moving. 

"  Then  we  returned  to  the  castle — I  half  dead,  wretched,  mis- 
erable ;  she,  nervous,  excited,  angry,  and  the  horses  streaming 
with  sweat  and  foam." 

"  And  after  this  adventure  you  left  ?"  said  Danton. 

"No;  from  the  hour  that  I  had  felt  the  contact  of  her  hand, 
from  that  hour  I  swore  she  should  be  mine." 

"  This  is  quite  another  thing  from  St.  Preux — you  arc  getting 
into  the  Liaisons  Dangeureuses,  and  becoming  Valmont." 

"I  have  not  done  yet,"  said  Marat;  "I  will  give  you  some- 
thing better  than  so  frivolous  a  hero  as  Valmont.  Have 
patience."  '  •  _ . 


v    THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  129 

CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    INTEREST    DEEPENS. 

"FROM  the  moment  I  have  described,  my  blood  coursed  liko 
fire  through  my  veins.  My  story  now  is  neither  in  the  style  of 
Rousseau  nor  of  Laclos  ;  it  belongs  to  me  alone." 

"  Well,"  said  Danton  with  that  freedom  of  tone  he  had  now 
taken  with  Marat ;  "  I  know  you  must  have  been  young ;  I  ad- 
mit you  were  handsome ;  still,  I  cannot  see  how  you  could  fancy 
you  could  inspire  love  in  such  a  woman  as  you  have  described." 

"  I  never  expected  her  to  love  me.  No  one  ever  loved  me. 
There  was,  even  in  my  best  days,  something  about  me  which 
repelled  love.  My  dog  even,  sprang  at  my  throat  when  I  was 
trying  to  take  a  bone  out  of  his  mouth.  I  never  hoped  to 
inspire  Cccile  with  love,  after  the  few  first  days  of  my  introduc- 
tion to  her." 

"  What !  Is  your  story  finished  ?" 

"Never  fear.  When  I  undertake  anything,  I  do  not  easily 
give  it  up.  You  are  strong,  you  are  eloquent ;  yet  if  I  were  to 
take  it  into  my  head  to  conquer  you,  either  in  wrestling  or  in 
rhetoric,  I  should  accomplish  both ;  but  I  hope  we  shall  never 
come  to  that  I  was  determined  to  be  revenged  on  Cecile  ;  I  was 
determined  to  humble  her ;  and  this  is  how  I  accomplished  my 
purpose." 

'•  By  violence  t    Why,  she  would  have  beaten  you  to  death." 

"I  believe  she  would— therefore  I  did  not  employ  violence. 
Being  a  chemist,  I  was  especially  versed  in  the  virtue  and  effects 
of  soporifics." 

"  Ah,  I  understand,"  said  Danton. 

"Do  you?  then  it  is  useless  that  I  should  enter  into  any 

detail.     Suffice  it  to  say,  then,  that  one  morning  during  our  ride 

the  Princess  was  seized  with  an  extraordinary  sleep — so  much 

so  as  to  be  unable  to  remain  on  her  horse.    We  were  in  a  deep 

17 


130  ING^XUE  ;    OK, 

wood.  I  lifted  her  in  my  arms  off  her  horse,  put  her  down  on 
the  grass  sward,  and  despatched  our  attendant  to  the  castle  for 
a  carriage.  Whether  she  had  a  presentiment  of  my  intentions, 
I  know  not;  but  before  quite  losing  her  consciousness,  she 
exclaimed,  "  help  !  help  !  save  me !'  It  was  but  a  vain  effort, 
for  she  soon  became  totally  insensible — entirely  in  my  charge — 
the  groom  having,  as  I  have  said,  left  us." 

"  Did  she  sleep  quietly,  or  was  she  haunted  by  terrible  dreams  ?" 

"  I  know  not — but  just  as  the  carriage  and  her  attendants 

arrived,   the  princess  came   to   herself.     The  first  person  she 

sought,  on  her  recovery,  was  myself.     Her  eyes  pierced  through 

me  with  a  steady,  inquiring  gaze,  as  though  to  demand  the  truth." 

'''  You  were  guilty  of  a  great  crime,"  said  Canton";  "  you  are 

right  not  to  believe  in  God,  for  you  deserved  his  most  unmerciful 

anger.     Your  crime  merits  an  awful  retribution." 

li  You  shall  see  that,  if  what  I  call  a  just  revenge,  was  in 
reality  a  crime,  it  has  been  -bitterly  expiated.  Yet  I  had  well 
calculated  all ;  I  had  neither  witnesses  nor  accomplices.  Cecile 
herself  could  have  but  a  confused  remembrance  of  what  had 
passed ;  and  even  if  her  recollection  had  been  more  vivid,  I  could 
not  fear  she  would  denounce  me. 

"  All  happened  as  I  had  planned  it.  The  even  tenor  of  my  life 
was  not  disturbed  by  the  circumstance  I  have  related.  If  there 
was  any  change  in  Cecile,  it  was  that  her  manner  became  more 
gracious — but  perhaps  that  might  be  fancy." 

"  Then  you  should  have  left ;  to  stay  was  madness,"  said 
Danton. 

"  Why,  cannot  you  guess  the  hope  that  chained  me  to  the  spot  ?" 
"  The  hope  for  a  renewal  of  the  soporific  draught  ?" 
"  Yes ;  I  watched  for  two  months,  in  the  hope  that  the  Princess 
would  have  another  such  attack  of  magnetic  sleep ;  but  I  could 
not  find  the  opportunity  I  sought.     Two  months  passed  over  our 
heads  ;  when,  one  morning,  the  Prince  entered  my  room.     I  was 
preparing  for  my  morning  ride  with  Cecile.     The  Prince  had 
always  been  very  gracious  to  me ;  so,  at  the  noise  he  made  in 
opening  the  door,  I  turned  with  an  obsequious  smile. 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  131 

"  He  did  not  reply  to  my  salutation ;  but  shutting  the  door 
with  violence,  exclaimed  in  Latin  : 

u  '  Galle,  Galle,  proditor  infamis  jlecto  genua  et  ora ." 

"  With  these  words  he  drew  his  sword  and  made  a  lunge  at 
me. 

"  I  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  drew  back.  My  antagonist  paused  . 
he  thought  it  too  easy  a  death  for  me,  to  kill  me  thus  at  one 
blow.  He  sheathed  his  sword,  and  opening  the  door,  called  to 
the  servant  he  had  left  outside  in  the  corridor." 

"  '  Come  here,"  said  he  ;  "  behold  a  man  who  has  committed  a 
great  crime.' " 

"  I  gave  myself  up  for  lost  I  knew  that  if  the  Staroth  de- 
clared the  dishonor  of  his  daughter,  he  could  have  no  mercy  on 
me.  I  confess  I  felt  like  a  coward.  My  courage  has  no  pres- 
ence of  mind  ;  taken  unawares,  it  fails  me.  I  threw  myself  at 
his  feet.  '  What  have  I  done  ?'  I  exclaimed,  looking  from  the 
Prince  to  his  myrmydons,  in  hopes  that,  as  he  had  not  yet 
despatched  me.  he  would  have  some  mercy  or  some  fear. 

"  « He  is  a  traitor,'  said  the  Prince ;  '  this  man,  whom  I  have 
sheltered  under  my  roof,  admitted  into  my  family,  is  a  traitor — 
a  spy  from  the  Catholics — an  emissary  from  the  enemies  of  our 
good  King."' 

"  As  he  spoke  in  Latin,  I  understood  all  he  said." 

"la  spy  !  an  enemy  of  the  Kingi" 

"'Yes,'  said  he;  'a  traitor,  unworthy  to  die  the  death  of  a 
man.  He  shall  die  the  death  of  a  slave — not  by  the  sword,  but 
by  the  knout.' " 

••  He  made  a  sign.  I  was  seized,  stripped,  and  dragged  into 
the  court-yard,  where  a  provost  of  the  castle  (all  these  petty 
princes  have  a  provost)  was  summoned,  and,  at  the  second  blow, 
I  fainted."  % 

Here  Marat  paused.  Danton  looked  at  him,  horror-stricken 
at  the  ferocious  expression  of  the  narrator's  livid  countenance. 

"  Oh."  said  Danton,  "  Mademoiselle  Olinska  had  well  choseu 
her  confessor— her  father  was  a  discreet  confidant" 


132  •  .1N6EXUE  J    OB, 

M  Yes ;  and  to  be  assured  of  my  discretion,  he  was  determined 
to  have  me  silenced  by  death." 

'•'  Well,  I  wonder  that  I  see  you  alive." 

"  Because  I  happened  to  have  a  friend — the  groom  who  had 
accompanied  us  in  our  rides — who  withdrew  me  for  dead,  after 
the  first  blows." 

"  I  thought  you  had  but  one  blow." 

'•'  One  wound — for  the  executioner  always  struck  in  the  same 
place — but  a  wound  which,  with  all  the  blood  in  the  body,  gener- 
ally carries  out  the  life  of  the  patient. 

"The  groom  had  had  compassion  on  me  ;  he  had  divined 
ssmething  of  my  love  for  Cecile,  and,  revolted  at  her  cruelty, 
had  interceded  for  me  with  the  executioner.  I  was  left  for  dead, 
and  taken  by  my  friend  to  his  room,  where  he  restored  me  to 
life  by  the  agony  caused  by  the  application  of  salt  and  water  to 
my  wound. 

"  One  evening — I  remember  it  was  on  a  Sunday,  for  Mademoi- 
selle Olinska  was  to  dine  with  the  Prince  Czartorisky — one  ene- 
ning  my  preserver  came  to  me.  I  was  exhausted  with  loss  of 
blood  and  suffering ;  I  could  not  refrain  from  uttering  continual 
cries. 

" '  Everybody  thinks  you  dead,'  said  he,  '  and  you  are  now 
roaring  so  loud,  that  if  Mademoiselle  Celile  or  the  Prince  were  to 
hear  you,  they  would  soon  make  an  end  of  both  of  us.' 

"  I  tried  to  stifle  my  cries  by  putting  my  handkerchief  into  my 
mouth.  '  Here  are  four  hundred  florins,'  continued  my  protector ; 
'  they  are  your  own — you  see  the  Prince  gave  them  to  me  with 
the  rest  of  your  things.  I  give  them  back  to  you,  because  without 
money,  you  won't  get  far.' 

"  '  Get  far !  are  you  going,  then,  to  send  me  away  ?' 

«(Iam.'  0 

'"When?* 

"  <  Directly.' 
•     "  '  Impossible.' 

"  '  Then,  I  must  shoot  you ;  for  I  cannot  keep  you  any  longer, 
without  running  the  risk  of  discovery.' 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  133 

"  '  Why,  then,  did  you  save  my  life  ?' 

•' '  I  had  reckoned  on  your  energy.  I  intended  to  have  given 
you  your  money  and  sent  you  off,  or  conducted  you  myself*  to 
the  gates  of  Warsaw  ;  but  since  I  can't  get  you  to  move,  why  I 
had  better  finish  you  before  you  are  found  out,  and  we  are  both 
in  the  Prince's  power.  It  is  as  well  to  die  by  my  hands  as  his.' 

"  These  words,  and  an  expressive  gesture  towards  his  pistols, 
decided  me  at  once.  By  a  supreme  effort,  I  rose,  although  in 
doing  so,  I  suffered  the  tortures  of  the  damned.  I  uttered  not  a 
cry.  Gallien  was  right  when  he  said:  "  Malo  pejore  minus 
dilectum." 

"  Poor  devil,  how  you  must  have  suffered !" 

"  You  may  well  say  poor  devil !  I  dragged  my  coat  over  my 
bloody  shirt ;  put  the  gold  in  my  pockets,  and  followed  the  groom. 
Every  step  I  took  was  a  fresh  agony.  We,  however,  got  away 
from  the  palace ;  we  passed  the  Czartoriski  palace,  as  its  clock 
struck  ten.  Then  the  groom  said  he  could  go  no  further.  But 
he  assured  me  I  was  in  no  danger,  because,  after  ten  o'clock,  the 
streets  were  deserted,  and  that  in  five  minutes  I  should  be  out  of 
the  city." 

"I  thanked  him,  as  one  thanks  the  preserver  of  one's  life.  I 
offered  to  share  the  four  hundred  florins  with  him,  but  he  refused. 
1  Keep  them,'  said  he ;  '  the  sum  is  very  far  from  sufficient  for 
you  to  reach  France — where  I  advise  you  to  go  as  fast  as  possible.' 

"I  thought  this  advice  excellent,  and  determined  to  follow  it; 
hut  there  were  many  obstacles  to  be  overcome." 


134  INGENUE  J    OB, 


CHAPTER    X.VIII. 

HOW  THE   ADVENTURES    OF   MARAT    BECAME  INTERWOVEN  WITH 
THOSE    OF   THE    KING. 

"  HOWEVER  urgent  it  was  for  me  to  leave  the  Polish  dominions, 
my  protector  fully  understood  that  it  would  be  out  of  the  ques- 
tion for  me  to  begin  to  travel  in  my  present  condition.  Accor- 
dingly, he  had  arranged  that  I  should  remain  hidden  at  the  house 
of  his  brother-in-law  until  I  should  be  sufficiently  recoverd  to 
proceed  to  Prussia,  or  to  Flanders — or,  still  better,  to  embark  at 
Da^itzic  for  England.  Michel,  the  groom,  had  seen  his  brother- 
in-law;  he  was  a  charcoal  burner,  and  lived  in  the  woods. 
Nothing  could  be  better  chosen  than  this  asylum.  But  the  power 
which  presides  over  the  destinies  of  men,  seemed  to  have  taken 
pains  to  derange  all  my  plans. 

"  I  have  told  you  that  it  was  Sunday.  It  was  the  first  Sunday 
in  September— the  third  day  of  that  mouth,  in  the  year  1771." 

Here,  Marat  paused,  and  looked  towards  Danton. 

"Well?"  said  Danton. 

"  Well ! — does  this  date  remind  you  of  nothing  1 

«  Nothing  that  I  know  of." 

"  Oh,  then  I  must  make  a  digression.  You  must  know,  then, 
that  amongst  Stanislas'  most  virulent  enemies,  were  all  the  dis- 
sentients from  the  Greek  Church — the  Calvinists  and  the  Lu- 
therans— all  of  whom,  however,  had  been  allowed  by  the  treaty  at 
Hadan,  in  1768,  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion." 

"I  confess,"  said  Danton,  "  that  I  never  took  any  interest  in 
religious  questions,  particularly  when  they  did  not  interest 
France." 

"  But  you  will  see  that  they  were  mighty  interesting  to  one 
Frenchman  at  any  rate.  No  sooner  were  these  sects  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  their  privileges,  than  a  few  ultra-Catholic  bishops, 
and  some  discontented  noblemen,  formed  themselves  into  a  league 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  135 

to  prevent  the  spirit  of  toleration.  Now  Stanislas,  though  a 
Ring,  was  an  honest  man ;  and  having  promised,  resolved  to 
perform  ;  so  he  took  part  with  his  schismatic  subjects,  and  the 
league,  therefore,  meeting  together  in  Podolia,  entered  into  a 
charming  little  conspiracy  against  the  King/' 

••  Very  much  like  what  happened  to  Henri  IV,"  observed 
Danton. 

"  So  far  —but  not  in  the  end.  These  bishops,  as  I  say,  entered 
into  a  conspiracy  against  the  King.  Now,  this  was  the  plan  of 
their  conspiracy :" 

'•  I  am  anxious  to  know  the  system  of  insurrection  employed 
by  the  Poles,"  said  Danton. 

'•  Oh,  it  was  a  very  simple  one.  It  consisted  in  seizing  the 
tolerant  sovereign  and  keeping  him  in  sequestration,  until  he 
should  have  repealed  his  tolerant  decrees.  It  was  proposed  to 
take  him  either  dead  or  alive ;  many  even  thought  it  would  be 
more  prudent  to  make  sure  of  him  by  killing  before  they  carried 
him  off." 

'•  Hum !"  said  Danton ;  "  these  Poles  have  learned  something 
of  Turkish  diplomacy." 

"  Now  unfortunately,"  continued  Marat,  "  the  conspirators  had 
chosen  this  very  third  of  September  to  execute  their  plans.  The 
King,  who  dined,  as  well  as  Olinski  and  his  daughter,  at  Czarto- 
risky's,  was  to  leave  at  ten  o'clock.  At  ten  o'clock  the  streets, 
especially  on  a  Sunday,  were  deserted.  The  King  had  but  a 
small  escort,  and  only  one  Aide-de-camp  in  his  carriage  with 
him.  The  conspirators  posted  themselves  in  a  narrow  cross 
street,  through  which  this  benign  monarch  had  to  pass.  Hero 
as  soon  as  he  appeared,  they  were  to  rush  forth  and  seize  him- 
Accordingly,  no  sooner  was  the  escort  within  pistol-shot,  than 
they  fired.  The  escort  was  soon  scattered  ;  the  aide-de-camp 
jumped  from  the  carriage — so  that  the  coachman  only  remained 
with  the  King.  He  fought  bravely,  but  was  of  course  soon  over- 
powered by  numbers.  The  conspirators  then  seized  the  King, 
dragged  him  by  his  hair  and  clothes  from  the  carriage,  inflicting  a 
deep  sabre  wound  on  his  head  and  scorching  bis  face  with  a  pistol 


136  INGENUE  ;    OK, 

which  missed  fire — and  so  conveyed  him,  rapidly,  out  of  the  city. 

"  What  the  poor  King  suffered  during  this  terrible  flight,  forms 
a  poem  as  well  known  in  Poland  as  the  Jerusalem  Delivered,  in 
Venice,  or  the  Orlando  Furioso,  in  Naples.  It  is  full  of  horrors. 

Stanislas  during  this  flight,  had  lost  his  cloak,  his  hat,  his  shoes, 
his  purse— one  made  of  the  hair  of  a  woman  he  loved,  which  he 
valued  far  beyond  the^rnoney  that  was  in  it.  He  had  been  many 
times  on  the  point  of  expiring  from  fatigue.  Ten  times  had  he 
changed  horses  j  often  had  he  been  told  to  prepare  for  death — 
until  his  assailants  had,  one  by  one,  disappeared,  and  the  King 
remained  at  last  with  only  one  man,  the  chief  of  the  conspirators. 
He  was  young,  vigorous,  armed  to  the  teeth— the  King  exhausted, 
wounded,  and  totally  unarmed;  Yet  this  man  no  sooner  saw  him- 
self alone,  than  he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  his  prisoner, 
implored  his  pardon,  and  entreated  mercy  from  him  who  expected 
mercy  from  God  alone. 

<:  I,  in  the  meantime,  had  lost  sight  of  Michael.  My  blood  trick- 
ling down  my  back ;  giddy  from  weakness ;  utterly  bewildered  ; 
I  was  striving,  with  the  instinct  of  life,  to  find  the  way  my  bene- 
factor described  to  me. '  All  at  once  a  sudden  report  of  fire-arms 
aroused  me ;  then  the  sound  of  horses,  of  wheels,  of  many 
voices,  reached  my  ear." 

"  What  could  it  be  ?" 

"I  have  just  told  you;  it  was  the  conspiracy.  Presently, 
several  persons  passed  me — one  nearly  knocked  me  down,  as  he 
ran  by.  They  were  the  attendants  of  the  King,  flying  before 
the  enemy.  Then'  came  a  carriage,  surrounded  by  men  with 
drawn  swords,  glittering  in  the  torch-light.  I  threw  myself  on 
the  ground — the  horses  miraculously  leaped  over  me  without 
striking  me  with  their  hoofs.  Stanislas,  himself,  was  dragged 
past  me — then  all  disappeared,  and  I  remained  stretched  on 
the  earth,  incapable  of  moving. 

"  Not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  bethought  me  of  my  patron  saint, 
St.  Paul,  and  implored  him  to  get  me  out  of  this  scrape. 

"  Presently,  two  or  three  windows  were  opened ;  two  or  threo 
heads  thrust  out  a  few  words  were  exchanged  between  neigh- 


THE   FIRST  DAYS    OF   BLOOD.  137 

bors ;  then  all  was  silent  again.  The  tumult  had  been  attributed 
to  a  fight  between  some  inebriated  soldiers,  returning  to  their 
barracks  after  a  Sunday's  debauch.  I,  poor,  exhausted  wretch, 
remained  on  the  earth,  too  weak  to  move,  and  too  much  alarmed 
to  dare  to  call  for  help.  I  remained  thus  for  about  half  an  hour. 
At  the  expiration  of  this  time,  I  began  to  revive,  and  attempt  to 
rise.  I  had  just  got  up  on  one  knee,  when  from  the  end  of  the 
street  appeared  a  lighted  torch,  then  another,  then  twenty,  fifty, 
an  hundred— all  borne  by  the  household  of  the  King,  to  whom 
the  servants  had  given  the  alarm. 

"On  they  came,  seeking,  whispering,  looking  above,  around, 
below.  At  last,  they  stumbled  over  the  body  of  the  coachman, 
whose  cold  and  stiffened  hand  still  retained  his  broken  and 
bloody  sword.  Here  they  paused  ;  and  as  the  dead  have  all  a 
right  to  a  funeral  oration,  they  began  to  talk  about  him  and  his 
doings. 

" '  He  was  a  brave  fellow,'  said  one.  '  He  defended  his  King,' 
said  another.  '  He  has  more  than  fifty  wounds,'  said  a  third. 
Then  they  turned  him  over,  and  examined  his  wounds,  and  com- 
mented on  this  catastrophe,  and  the  greater  one,  of  which  this 
was-  a  part. 

"  Then,  like  the  .priests  of  Odin,  at  the  funeral  of  the  old 
warriors,  they  exclaimed  in  chorus,  '  He  was  a  brave  fellow  !' 

"  All  this  lasted  ten  minutes.  I  had  risen,  and  had  walked  an 
hundred  paces,  without  much  difficulty  ;  ten  minutes  more,  and 
I  should  be  without  the  city  walls— safe,  at  liberty  to  rest  or  to 
find  my  way  to  my  forest  refuge. 

"Presently,  a  sudden  idea  struck  this  multitude — it  turned 
like  a  fisherman's  net,  dragging  all  with  it,  and  made  for  the 
open  country. 

"  '  They  have  gone  this  way !  Here  are  traces  of  their  flight ! 
We  can  soon  overtake  them.'  They  soon  overtook  me — imagined 
I  was  a  fugitive — stopped  me,  questioned  me  ;  but  I,  overcome 
by  this  last  misfortune,  fainted  at  their  feet. 

"  When  I  came  to,  they  were  all  discussing  me  and  my  con- 
dition. 

18 


138  INTG^XUE  ;    OB, 

"  ' Is  he  dead  T  ' No,  only  wounded.'  <  Who  is  he ?»  'I  do 
not  know  him.'  ( Nor  I.'  '  Nor  I.'  '  He  did  not  belong  to.  the 
King's  suite.'  '  He  is  one  of  the  conspirators.'  '  Perhaps  the 
one  who  killed  the  coachman.'  '  Yes,  yes — let  us  finish  him.' 

"  And  so  they  would,  only  that  I  bellowed  out — 

" '  Sta ." 

"  During  the  last  few  minutes,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  what 
to  say. 

"  '  I  am  not  an  assassin,  or  a  conspirator — I  am  a  poor  student, 
who  was  caught  in  the  crowd  ;  knocked  down  by  the  ravishers 
of  the  King;  all  their  horses  passed  over  me — and  finally,  His 
Majesty's  carriage.' 

"  This  speech  gave  me  a  few  moments'  respite. 

" '  Gentlemen,'  said  an  officer,  '  this  man's  story  is  not  a  pro- 
bable one.  I  am  still  persuaded  that  he  is  one  of  the  assassins. 
Providence  has  saved  his  life,  in  order  to  give  us  a  clue  to  the 
conspiracy.  Let  us  take  care  of  him,  and  he  shall  reveal  all.' 

"  This  proposal  met  with  universal  approbation. 

"!  To  the  palace!  to  the  palace!'  cried  the  multitude;  and, 
raising  me  in  their  arms,  they  rushed  along  with  me  after  the 
crowd.  • 

"  And  so  I  made  my  triumphal  entrance  into  the  palace,  escorted 
by  more  than  five  hundred  people,  whom  curiosity  to  see  the 
vagabond  on  whom  such  all-important  revelation  depended,  had 
assembled." 

"  Well,"  said  Danton,  (i  yours  was  a  curious  destiny — for  what 
can  you  be  reserved  ?  I  think  the  adventures  of  the  Count 
Potocki  thrilling  with  interest." 

"'If  you  don't,"  said  Marat,  "I  assure  you  I  do,  being  the 
hero.  I  never  wish  for  anything  so  interesting  again." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  139 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

IN  WHICH  MARAT,  AFTER  HATING  BECOME  ACQUAINTED  WITH 
THE  OFFICERS  OF  THE  KING'S  HOUSEHOLD,  18  INTRODUCED  TO 
THE  JAILORS  OF  THE  PRISONS  OF  THE  EMPRESS  CATHERINE 
OF  RUSSIA. 

"  THE  King,"  pursued  Marat,  "  for  I  must  return  to  him,  for- 
gave the  conspirator  who  implored  his  mercy." 

"  By  Heaven !  I  think  he  was  wise  to  do  so — for  if  he  had  not, 
this  solitary  conspirator,  to  prevent  future  accidents,  might  easily 
have  knocked  4he  King  on  the  head." 

"Well — I  never  yet  viewed  the  clemency  of  his  Majesty  in 
this  light ;  but  it  is  probably  the  true  one.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
this  conspirator  was  pardoned.  The  others,  seized  by  the  Rus- 
sians, were  summarily  decapitated,  without  trial  or  legal  delay — 
probably  to  prevent  their  making  inconvenient  revelations  of  the 
great  friendship  her  majesty  Catherine  entertained  for  the  King 
of  Poland. 

"  My  examination  was  carried  on  very  briskly.  I  of  course, 
persisted  in  my  first  declaration.  But  my  judges  could  never  be 
convinced  that  the  bright  idea  they  had  entertained  of  my  belong- 
ing to  the  conspirators  was  a  false  one.  They,  however,  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  I  was  not  one  of  the  principal  conspirators, 
but  merely  one  of  their  instruments. 

"  What  was  I  to  do  ?  My  only  way  of  getting  out  of  the 
scrape  would  have  been  to  claim  my  acquaintance  with  the 
Count  Olinski  or  his  daughter.  This  I  rather  objected  to,  as 
you  may  imagine.  I  preferred  relying  on  the  clemency  of  Stan- 
islas. He  had  pardoned  the  principal  conspirator,  why  should  he 
not  pardon  me  ?  I  knew  what  I  had  to  expect  from  the  clem- 
ency of  Olinska.  I  risked  nothing  by  trusting  that  of  the  King. 
It  could  not  be  worse  than  theirs. 
M 


INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  Accordingly  I  was  condemned  to  hard  labor  in  the  fortifica- 
tion of  Kaminiesk. 

"  Then  you  were  safe  ?" 

"  Yes — if  you  call  being  in  the  galleys  safe.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  I  reached  the  fortress,  than  the  plague — as  if  it  had  been 
waiting  my  arrival  to  declare  itself — burst  forth  with  terrific 
violence.  My  jailors  were  amongst  the  first  victims;  so  that 
opportunities  for  escape  were  not  wanting.  Of  course,  I  was 
not  backward  in  taking  advantage  of  them ;  and  so  I  fled  from 
Poland  into  the  territories  of  the  Empress  of  Russia. 

"New,  when  I  accepted  the  offices  of  the  Prince  Olinski,  I  was 
on  my  way  to  Russia.  Russia  had  always  been  an  Eldorado  in 
my  mind :  and  had  not  this  princely  offer  occurred,  I  had 
intended  to  try  my  fortune  with  Voltaire's  protectress,  the  Semi- 
ramis  of  the  North. 

"  At  this  Court,  thought  I,  all  literary  men  are  in  favor.  A 
day  does  not  pass  but  the  Empress  sends  Diderot  some  tes- 
timony of  her  regard.  She  corresponds  regularly  with  M.  de 
le  Harpe  ;  and  M.  de  Voltaire  has  only  to  wish,  to  receive  by  an 
Imperial  courier,  the  object  he  desires.  Did  she  not  send  him  a 
splendid  library,  and  a  fabulous  number  of  diamond  rings  and 
pins  ?  All  I  want  is  an  annuity  of  eighteen  hundred  francs." 

"  Well,  did  you  get  your  pension  ?" 

"You  shall  see.  To  begin,  I  no  sooner  passed  the  frontier, 
than  I  was  arrested  as  a  spy.  This  time  I  was  not  afraid  of 
explaining  myself.  The  Olinskis  were  far  away.  Now,  as  I 
was  fully  aware  of  the  part  the  Russian  government  had  plaj'ed 
in'the  late  conspiracy  to  carry  off  Stanislas,  and  had  not  heard 
of  the  execution  of  the  forty-two  Polish  noblemen,  I  related  to 
the  Russian  authorities  the  part  I  had  taken  in  the  recent  plot. 
I  had  no  doubt  that  the  Russians  would  vote  me  a  triumphal 
entrance  into  St.  Petersburgh." 

"  Ah  !  ah  !"  said  Danton  ;  !i  I  see  you  were  on  a  wrong  scent." 

"  Rather  !  For  no  sooner  had  they  heard  my  story,  than  the 
officers  in  command,  who  dreaded  the  plague  as  much  as  the 
Poles,  and  the  Poles  as  much  as  the  plague,  whispered  to  some 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  141 

of  the  soldiers.  I  was  carried  off  and  consigned  to  a  fortress  of 
which  I  did  not  know  the  name,  situated  near  a  river,  of  whose 
appellation  I  was  equally  ignorant.  I  have  since  imagined  that 
the  river  was  the  Dwina,  and  the  fortress  that  of  Dunabourg. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  certain  it  is  that  I  was  imprisoned  in  a  cell  on 
a  level  with  the  water.  No  sooner  was  I  in  my  cell,  than  the  next 
day  the  water  began  to  rise,  and  inundate  the  whole  country ; 
whilst  in  my  cell  it  was  two  or  three  feet  deep. 

The  wound  in  my  back,  but  imperfectly  healed,  opened  afresh 
in  this  unhealthy  atmosphere.  My  limbs,  perpetually  immersed 
in.  cold  water,  grew  stiffened  and  distorted ;  my  form,  so  straight 
and  symmetrical,  became  deformed  under  the  excruciating  tor- 
tures I  endured.  My  teeth  detached  themselves  from  the  gums 
and  fell  out.  My  very  features  were  distorted,  like  my  body. 
In  this  dreary  abyss,  I  became  livid — hideous.  I  lost  all  dignity, 
all  hope.  My  eyes,  long  accustomed  to  darkness,  contracted  and 
learned  to  dread  the  light  Now  I  love  a  cellar,  provided  it  is  a 
dry  one,  better  than  a  palace — for  in  an  under-ground  cave  I 
blasphemed  night  and  day,  without  the  thunderbolt  of  Heaven 
ever  striking  me.  There  I  cursed  men,  without,  their  power  of 
silencing  me ;  and  from  those  dark  caves  I  emerged  fully  con 
vinced  of  my  superiority  over  both  God  and  man.  Since  that 
hour,  I  became  what  I  am— remorseless— the  genius  of  evil.  The 
victim  of  injustice,  I  determined  to  revenge  myself  on  the  world. 
True,  I  had  committed  a  crime — but  the  punishment  far  exceed- 
ed it.  I  could  understand  that  Olinski  should  punish  me ;  but 
it  was  cruel,  unjust,  that,  having  received  just  retribution  for 
my  only  offence,  God  should  have  allowed  me  to  suffer  for  years 
every  sort  of  torture,  in  these  Russian  dungeons,  on  the  bare 
suspicion  of  being  a  Polish  spy. 

'•  Perhaps  you  will  say,  Danton,  that  it  was  God's  judgment 
upon  me  for  my  wickedness.  I  will  prove  to  you,  logically, 
that  God  was  to  blame  for  all,  and  had,  therefore,  no  right  to 
strike  his  own  work.  The  Creator  intended  to  punish'me ;  but, 
by  his  will,  I  was  created  with  the  evil  passions  which  caused 


142  INGENUE  J    OR, 

my  crime.  Therefore,  my  evil  nature  was  given  me  for  the  com- 
mission of  crime,  and  that  by  crime  I  should  arrive  at  this  hor- 
rible punishment ;  therefore,  God  will  be  the  origin  of  all  the 
evil  I  may  commit,  if  I  should  ever  attain  to  power  over  man- 
kind. 

"  Now,  if  all  this  suffering  does  not  bring  forth,  ultimately 
some  great  result,  and  was  not  ordered  for  some  great  end,  we 
must  abandon  all  other  dogmas,  and  acknowledge  the  creed  of 
the  Hindoos,  who  believe  in  the  existence  of  two  powers,  a 
good  and  an  evil  one.  constantly  struggling  for  ascendency — we 
must  recognize,  with  them,  that  the  evil  power  often  triumphs 
over  the  good."  .  '  ;'  ". '  - 

Here  Marat  swallowed  a  glass  of  water,  whilst  Danton  pon- 
dered on  this  terrible  deduction,  of  which,  however,  he  was  far 
from  suspecting  the  importance.  After  a  few  moments'  silence, 
not  knowing  how  to  combat  this  fearful  theory,  Danton  ex- 
claimed : 

"  But,  after  all  these  perils,  all  these  sufferings,  what  saved 
you  at  last  frojn  the  Russian  dungeons  ?  God,  though  he  seemed 
to  forsake  you  for  a  time,  always  found  means  to  interpose  be- 
tween your  persecutors  and  yourself.  He  always  sent  a  servant, 
a  slave,  a  somebody,  to  save  your  life  at  the  last  moment.  Even 
here,  when  the  rigorous  orders  given  by  the  Russian  govern 
ment  make  your  own  account  of  yourself  condemn  you  to  the 
cell,  deep  in  the  waters  you  have  described,  even  here,  though 
you  become  distorted  and  deformed,  though  you  suffer  tortures 
sufficient  to  have  killed  most  men,  still,  even  here,  you  did  not 
die.  Who.  then,  was  this  time  the  instrument  of  your  salvation  1 
Probably  the  humanity  of  your  preserver  compensated  for  the 
cruelty  of  your  judges." 

"  Humanity !"  said  Marat ;  "  do  you  think  the  man  who 
saved  me,  did  it  out  of  humanity  ?  Bah  !  he  did  it  out  of  self- 
ishness." 

"  Who  knows  ?  How  can  you  tell  ?  None  but  He  who  reads 
all  hearts,  can  read  motives,"  said  Danton. 

"  If  ou  will  see  that,  this  time,  I  read  the  man's  heart  aright. 


THE   F1BST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  143 

The  only  person  I  saw  in  ray  dungeon  was  my  jailor.  He  was 
a  fine,  stalwart  fellow,  very  fond  of  his  own  comforts — living 
with  his  family  in  a  species  of  oven.  When  this  man,  to  bring 
me  my  scanty  pittance,  had  to  wade  through  the  water,  he  got 
very  ill-tempered,  and  swore  such  frightful  oaths  that,  had  the 
waves  been  as  timid  as  those  which  drew  back  at  the  sight  of 
the  monster  sent  by  Neptune  to  frighten  the  steeds  of  Hypoli- 
tus,  they  would  have  retreated  before  his  Russian  blasphemies. 

"  At  last,  my  jailer  declared  to  the  governor  that  he  would  not 
continue  his  service  any  longer.  The  dungeons  were  unfit  for  a 
jailor — to  say  nothing  of  the  prisoners.  Besides  the  water,  they 
had  the  rats  and  the  eels  to  contend  with. 

"The  governor  heeded  neither  jailor  nor  prisoner,  but  simply 
ordered  that  things  should  go  on  as  before. 

•  •  So  the  jailor  determined  to  let  me  die  of  starvation  ;  he  was 
two  days  without  bringing  me  any  food. 

"  Now,  although  my  life  was  anything  but  a  pleasant  one,  I 
had  no  inclination  to  part  with  it.  I  accordingly  set  up  a  fearful 
and  continued  howl. 

"The  jailor  heard  me — so  might  the  governor,  thought  he; 
in  which  case  he  would  surely  lose  his  place.  So  he  came  to  me. 

••  •  What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you  ?'  said  he. 

"I  am  starving,'  said  I. 

"'Here  is  your  food.' 

"I  eagerly  devoured  it. 

" '  It  appears  that  you  are  getting  tired  of  being  my  prisoner,' 
said  he. 

"  '  Uncommonly,'  I  replied. 

"  '  Well,  I  am  tired  of  being  your  jailor.' 

"  I  looked  up  with  palpitating  interest. 

"  So  that,'  continued  the  jailor, '  if  you  will  promise  to  be  pru- 
dent, this  very  night' 

"'Well!' 

"  '  You  shall  be  free.' 

"  '  Who  will  give  me  my  freedom  ?' 

"  •  Have  I  not  the  key  of  the  padlock  which  chains  you  to  the 
M* 


144  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

wall  ?  Have  I  not  the  key  of  the  dungeon  door  ?  Never  fear — 
this  night  you  shall  be  free.' 

" '  But  when  it  is  found  out  ?' 

"  c  It  won't  be  found  out ;  leave  all  that  to  me.' 

"Astonishment  took  away  my  hunger.  I  scarcely  dared  give 
myself  up  to  the  joy  which  overwhelmed  me  ;  for  I  knew  that 
the  jailors  were  responsible,  in  all  countries  and  all  prisons,  for 
their  prisoners,  and  I  knew  that  one  could  not  disappear  without 
its  causing  some  disturbance.  , 

"  Night  came  at  last,  in  the  midst  of  my  hopes  and  'fears.  Ten 
o'clock  struck ;  and  almost  at  the  same  moment,  my  dungeon 
door  opened  and  I  beheld  my  jailor.  In  one  hand  he  carried  a 
lamp,  whilst  on  his  right  shoulder  he  carried  a  weight,  which 
seemed  too  much  even  for  his  gigantic  strength. 

"•What  he  bore  had  so  singular  a  form  that  I  looked  at  it  in 
wonder.  It  was  enclosed  in  a  sack,  but  the  outline  was  that  of 
a  human  form.  It  was  in  fact  a  dead  body. 

"  ( What  is  that  ?'  exclaimed  I,  in  alarm. 

"'Your  successor,'  said  the  jailor,  quite  jocosely. 

" :  My  successor  ?.' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  he ;  '  I  have  charge  of  two  prisoners,  one  in  the 
deep  dungeon,  the  other  in  a  comfortable  room,  with  a  warm 
atmosphere  and  a  good  bed.  Which  is  most  likely  to  die? 
Why,  the  one  in  the  dungeon,  to  be  sure  ;  but  prisoners  never  do 
anything  like  other  people ;  so  the  one  well  off  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  die,  whilst  the  other,  in  three  feet  of  water,  insists  upon 
living.  Here — catch  your  comrade.' 

"  So  saying,  he  threw  the  body  at  me. 

"  I  did  not  know  what  were  his  intentions  ;  still,  I  had  a  vague 
idea  that  my  safety  depended  on  this  dead  body — so,  with  almost 
superhuman  effort,  I  contrived  to  retain  the  corpse  in  my  arms. 

K<Now,'  said  the  jailor,  'give  me  your  leg — the  one  with  the 
fetters  on.' 

"  Leaning  against  the  pillars  which  supported  the  vault,  I  drew 
my  leg  from  the  water.  It  was  a  difficult  operation  ;  the  lock, 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  145 

Immersed  in  water  daring  the  last  three  months,  was  rustv :  the 
key  would  not  torn. 

"  The  jailor  was  loud  in  his  imprecations.  At  length  the  lock 
yielded,  and  the  fetters  which  had  bound  me  for  three  months 
fell.  • 

"  I  breathed  once  more  ;  this  was  my  first  step  towards  liberty, 
my  second  was  to  be  out  of  the  dungeon :  my  third  was  to  get 
out  of  fhe  fortress. 

M '  Now,'  said  the  jailor,  '  give  me  your  comrade's  leg.' 

"  '  You  are  going  to  substitute  him  for  me  ?' 

u '  Exactly.  It  will  be  all  the  same  before  morning — the  rats 
will  have  done  their  work— there  will  be  no  knowing  him  from 
you." 

"  I  acknowledged  that  the  jailor  was  a  man  of  forethought  I 
thanked  him  with  effusion. 

«  '  Don't  thank  me,'  said  the  jailor,  '  I  do  it  for  myself.  I  was 
not  going  to  catch  my  death  by  coming  once  a  day  into  this 
den.' 

"  If  coming  once  a  day  into  the  den  gave  the  jailor  his  death, 
what  was  it  to  do  to  the  prisoner  confined  in  it  for  three  months  ?" 

And  Marat  laughed  a  fiendish  laugh,  which  sent  a  shudder 
through  his  listener's  veins. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

TWO    DIFFERENT    VIEWS    OF   THE    SAME    CIRCUMSTANCE 

'•  THE  living  man  being  set  free,  and  the  dead  one  chained,  the 
jailor  took  up  his  lantern  and  made  signs  to  me  to  follow  him.  It 
was  with  difficulty  that  I  did  so,  for  I  could  scarcely  stand  on 
my  legs.  The  jailor  mistook  my  inability  for  hesitation.  '  Take 
care,'  said  he ;  '  this  stream  leads  to  the  sea.  I  was  going  to 
throw  in  the  dead  man— it  may  just  as  easily  receive  the  living 
one.  No  one  would  be  the  wiser,  now  that  you  have  a  represen- 
tative in  your  cell.' 

19 


146  IXGKNTTE  J   OB, 

"  My  resolution  did  not  fail  me  now  any  more  than  it  had  dono 
in  every  other  crisis  of  my  life.  Unable  to  stand,  I  crawled  on 
my  hands  and  knees — no  longer  like  a  human  being,  of  which  I 
had  indeed  almost  lost  the  form,  but  like  an  animal — and  so  I 
followed  my  rough  conductor. 

After  a  long,  circuitous  route,  we  arrived  at  last  at  the  outer 
gate.  Thanks  to  my  preserver's  knowledge  of  the  place,  we  had 
passed  neither  sentinels  nor  jailors.  Now  the  jailor  produced  his 
key,  and  opening  the  door,  exclaimed :  '  there  !' 

"  '  There,'  said  I ;  '  why,  that  is  the  river.'  In  fact,  the  postern 
to  which  I  had  been  conducted,  opened  on  to  the  river.  '  I  cannot 
swim,'  continued  I. 

"  '  So  much  the  worse  for  you,'  said  the  jailor,  in  a  tone  of 
impatience. 

"  'Let  us  find  some  other  means.' 

"  '  Be  quick  about  it,  then.' 

«  '  Ah !  I  see  a  boat.' 

"  :  Yes — chained  and  fastened  by  a  padlock.  Have  you  the 
key  ?  I  haven't.'  ' 

"  '  What  is,  then,  to  become  of  me  ?' 

"  '  Oh,'  said  the  jailor,  with  a  sneer;  'dogs  swim,  though  they 
never  learned — perhaps  you,  who  crawl  on  all  fours  like  a  dog 
will  find  you  can  swim  like  one,  if  you  try.' 

"  '  Ah !  I  have  an  idea.  We  passed  a  timber  yard  in  the  court 
near  by ;  there  I  saw  several  planks.  Help  me  to  drag  one  here, 
and  on  that,  God  willing,  I  can  glide  down  the  river.'  " 

"  After  all,"  interrupted  Danton,  "you  see  you  invoked  God." 

"  Ay !  at  that  instant  I  believed  in  him — that  is  long  ago." 

"  What  I  had  proposed  was  executed.  We  brought  the  plank, 
and  launched  it  on  the  river ;  then,  laying  myself  down  on  it 
and  closing  my  eyes,  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate." 

"  Confess  that,  at  this  trying  moment,  you  prayed  to  God," 
said  Danton. 

"  I  don't  remember  whether  I  did  or  not,"  replied  Marat ;  "  all 
I  know  is  that  I  glided  smoothly  along,  and  that,  after  a  little,  I 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  147 

gained  courage  to  open  my  eyes  and  to  consider  the  chances 
before  me.. 

"  It  was  impossible  that  the  course  of  tho  stream  should  not 
take  me  near  some  ships  or  some  town.  At  any  rate,  the  water 
felt  less  cold  than  my  dungeon.  I  had  now  above  me  the  star- 
lighted  vault  of  Heaven— land  on  my  right  and  left,  and  liberty 
before  me. 

"  On  I  floated,  the  rapid  stream  bearing  me  away  from  my 
enemies  and  my  perils.  By  morning  I  must  have  traveled  seven 
or  eight  leagues.  The  last  sound  I  had  heard,  as  I  got  on  my 
plank,  was  tb«  striking  eleven  of  the  fortress  clock.  Daylight 
dawned,  in  this  season,  at  about  seven  o'clock.  Through  the  vapors 
which  hung  over  the  waters  at  this  hour,  I  began  at  last  to  dis- 
tinguish the  hum  of  many  voices.  Soon  the  fog  dissipated,  and 
I  at  length  perceived  some  fishermen  and  sailors  occupied  in 
repairing  a  vessel  which  had  run  ashore.  Behind  them,  rose  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  a  small  village. 

"  I  cried  out  for  help,  and  waved  my  hand.  They  perceived 
me.  Two  of  them  jumped  into  a  boat,  rowed  towards  me,  reached 
me,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  safe  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  joy  of  my  rescue,  I  began  to  feel  anxious 
as  to  what  I  should  say  of  myself.  Chance  favored  me  this  time, 
for  it  was  before  the  parish  priest  that  I  was  taken. 

"  Here,  thought  I,  my  story  of  the  conspiracy  will  do  capitally. 
A  Catholic  priest  must  approve  the  plot  concocted  by  Catholics. 
I  was  not  mistaken ;  the  good  old  priest  considered  me  a  martyr 
to  the  good  cause.  He  took  me  into  his  house,  tended  me  and 
fed  me  for  a  fornight ;  tnen,  recommending  me  to  the  care  of  the 
wagoner,  he  packed  me  off  in  a  wagon  laden  with  goods  for  Riga. 

"  The  goods  were  addressed  to  a  merchant  of  Riga.  After  a 
week's  march,  we  reached  the. end  of  our  journey.  I  introduced 
myself  to  the  merchant,  by  announcing  to  him  the  safe  arrival  of 
all  his  merchandise,  which  was  of  great  value,  as  it  consisted 
principally  of  tea,  sent  by  caravan  from  China. 

"  With  this  merchant,  who  was  a  Protestant,  I  could  not  ven- 
ture on  the  story  of  my  Catholic  martyrdom — so  I  merely  told 


148  INGENUE  J   OB, 

him  that  I  was  a  teacher  of  languages,  anxious  to  get  to  England. 
The  merchant  was  just  about  sending  a  cargo  to  England  :  he 
gave  me  a  passage  on  his  ship,  and  a  week  or  ten  days  after  we 
left  the  Baltic,  anchored  safely  at  Folkestone. 

I  had  letters  for  Edinburgh,  given  me  by  the  merchant  of  Riga. 
Thither,  therefore,  I  proceeded,  and  was  soon  established  as  a 
professor  of  French.  This  was  in  1772.  England  was  in  a  state 
of  confusion.  The  letters  of  Junius  were  creating  great  ex- 
citement: Wilkes,  from  a  mere  journalist,  had  become  suddenly 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and  the  head  of  a  powerful  political  par- 
ty. I,  too,  resolved  to  become  an  author,  and  published  my  work, 
entitled  The  Chains  of  Slavery,  which  was  written  in  English. 
Afterwards,  I  wrote  a  reply  entitled  Man,  to  a  posthumous  work 
of  Helvetius,  which  I  published  in  French  at  Amsterdam." 

"Is  it  not  in  this  work,"  asked  Canton,  "  that  you  established 
a  new  system  of  psychology  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  attack  and  overthrow  the  absurdities  of  Descartes 
and  of  Newton.  With  all  this,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I 
could  make  a  living.  Occasionally  some  rich  Englishman,  some 
philosophical  peer,  would  present  me  with  a  gold  snuff-box, 
which  of  course  I  immediately  sold ;  but  my  snuff-box  absorbed, 
I  was  as  badly  off  as  before.  At  length  I  decided  on  re-enter- 
ing France. 

"Here  my  reputation  as  a  spiritualist  prepared  my  way  to  the 
court.  A  treatise  on  the  diseases  inherent  to  gallantry  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  Count  d'Artois ;  and  so  I  obtained  my 
present  appointment. 

"  I  am  now  forty-two  years  old.  Exhausted  by  study — by 
suffering— by  my  passions,  my  vengeance  and  my  hatred  are 
as  fresh  and  vigorous  as  ever.  '  At  present,  horses  are  my  only 
patients ;  but  the  time  will  come — the  day  is  not  far  distant 
— when  France  will  be  so  ill  that  she  will  need  a  physician,  and 
call  me  to  her ;  and  then,  never  fear,  I  will  bleed  her  until  1 
shall  make  her  disgorge,  to  the  last  drop,  all  the  blood  of  kings, 
princes,  and  aristocrats- that  she  has  in  her  veins  ! 

"  Now,  here  I  am,  my  dear  Colossus.    I  started  in  life  hand- 


THE   FIBST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  149 

some  and  vigorous ;  now  I  am  deformed  and  hideous.  Once  I 
was  kind  and  generous  5  now  I  am  merciless  and  hard-hearted. 
Once  I  was  a  philosopher  and  a  monarchist ;  now  I  am  a  repub- 
lican and  a  spiritualist,  incapable  of  human  feeling  or  human 
aflection." 

"  How  do  you  reconcile  your  spiritualism  with  your  atheism  ?" 

"  I  am  not  an  athiest.  I  acknowledge  a  Creator,  a  grand  and 
universal  Creator  of  the  universe ;  but  1  deny  the  existence  of  a 
Power  which  concerns  itself  with  the  actions  of  men  or  the 
events  of  the  world." 

'•And  what  became  of  Mademoiselle  Olinska?"  inquired 
Danton. 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  her  since.  And  now  Danton.  was  I 
not  right  to  say.  that  what  seems  imagination,  is  only  memory  ? 
Do  you  think  I  have  not  a  right  to  concoct  a  novel  ?  Can  you 
wonder  that  I  should  write  the  adventures  of  the  young  Potocki  ?" 

"  I  shall  never  wonder  at  anything  you  do  or  at  anything  you 
become,  either  as  an  author,  a  savant  or  a  politician,"  replied 
Danton ;  '•  but  I  shall  always  wonder  when  I  see  you  making 
such  a  bad  breakfast;  I  shall  always  wonder  when  I  see  you  so 
familiar  with  your  servant,  though  her  name  may  be  Albertine; 
I  shall  always  wonder  when  I  see  you  with  such  dirty  hands." 

41  Why  should  all  this  excite  your  wonder  ?"asked  Marat. 
.     "  Because  I  think  that  the  man  who  had  the  honor  of  throw- 
ing the  beautiful  Cecile  into  a  magnetic  sleep,  should  ever  after 
respect  himself,  as  the  priest  does  the  altar  he  has  served." 

"  Nonsense !"  exclaimed  Marat,  "  absurd  nonsense." 

"Well— admit  this  to  be  nonsense;  cleanliness,  say  the 
Italians,  is  almost  a  virtue.  Now,  why  should  not  you,  who  pro- 
fes»  to  have  no  virtues,  at  any  rate  try  to  practice  what  comes 
nearest  to  one  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Danton,"  said  Marat,  shaking  off  the  crumbs  of 
bread  and  the  drops  of  milk  from  bis  old  dressing-gown  ;  "  when, 
you  want  to  take  hold  of  the  people,  you  mustn't  have  too  clean 
a  hand." 


150  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  Nay— a  hand  may  be  as  white  as  it  likes,"  replied  Danton, 
provided  it  is  strong — look  at  mine." 

So  saying,  Danton  displayed  to  Marat  two  powerful,  muscular 
hands,  as  white  as.  snow, — such  hands  as  people  in  their  expres- 
sive language  designate  as  shoulders  of  mutton.  Marat,  spite  of 
himself,  could  not  but  admire  them. 

|  *"  Monsieur  Marat."  resumed  Danton ;  "  I  am  willing  to  allow 
that  you  have  interested  me ;  I  am  willing  to  allow  that  I  admire 
your  talents,  recognize  your  genius.  I  am  willing,  therefore,  to 
take  you  as  the  sign  of  the  show  we  are  going  to  get  up.  Your 
grotesque  appearance  will  attract  the  attention  of  the  public ; 
you  can  tell  them  all  about  the  Olinska  and  the  Olinski,  the 
jailor  and  the  serf.  But,  my  regenerator  of  the  world  !  your 
lodging  is  not  worthy  of  you.  A  tribune  of  the  people  cannot 
date  from  a  palace.  "What !  the  physician  who  would  drain  the 
veins  of  France  of  all  her  bad  blood,  condescend  to  bleed  the 
stud  of  a  prince  royal !  Fie  !  it  cannot  be  !" 

"  Ay,  I  see,"  replied  Marat ;  "  you  envy  me  my  cornet — the 
lever  with  which  I  am  to  move  the  world,  the  pittance  which 
leaves  me  time  to  .think  of  higher  things,  and  frees  me  from  the 
anxiety  of  earning  myjdaily  bread :  you,  who  spend  on  an  hour's 
gluttony  what  I  do  in  a  whole  year." 

''You  seem  rather  ungrateful  with  regard  to  that  dinner,  my 
precious  Diogenes  !"  said  Danton. 

"Ingratitude  is  the  independence  of  the  heart,"  replied  Marat. 

"  We  are  not  talking  of  hearts,  but  of  stomachs,"  said  Danton. 
"  Why  abuse  a  dinner  you  can  scarcely  have  digested  ?" 

"  I  may  abuse  it.  for  it  has  left  me  an  appetite  for  to-day  ;  but, 
however,  it  was  the  gold  of  a  prince  which  paid  for  your  feast,  as 
the  copper  of  a  prince  pays  for  my  sordid  meals.  Now  it  scorns 
to  me  that,  whether  the  money  of  the  royal  coffers  pays  for 
pheasants  or  boiled  beef,  one  is  as  bad  as  the  other— both  are 
corruption,  if  one  is.!' 

"  You  forget,  worthy  Aristides,  that  my  gold  was  in  exchange 
for  a-  legal  consultation." 

"  And  my  twelve  hundred  francs  were  for  medical  consulta- 


THE   FIRST   DAY3   OF   BLOOD.  151 

tions  ;  only  yours  were  for  princes,  and  mine  are  for  their  horses. 
Do  you  pretend  to  say  that  your  talents  deserve  for  one  con- 
sul tation  what  I  get  for  three  hundred  and  sixty -five?"  Marat 
gut  livid  with  rage  as  he  spoke. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Danton,  "  you  are  a  vicious  dog — you  havo 
told  me  so— so  you  need  not  growl  and  show  your  teeth  to  con- 
vince me.  Come,  my  good  Potocki,  be  calm!" 

Marat  made  a  kind  of  growling  response,  certainly  more  like  a 
dog  than  a  man. 

"Still,"  said  Danton.  "I  persist  in  it,  my  dear  Marat— you 
cannot  stay  here.  You  are  playing  an  ignoble  game  !  A  man 
like  you  cannot  eat  the  bread  of  tyrants,  after  having  said  what  I 
heard  you  say  of  them  last  night.  Suppose,  for  an  instant,  that 
your  master — well,  don't  let  us  quarrel  about  words — call  him 
what  you  please — this  young  prince,  the  Count  d'Artois,  should 
read  your  book  on  the  rights  of  man — supposing  he  should  then 
send  for  you,  and  say, '  M.  Marat,  whq£  must  my  horses  have 
done  to  you  ?  for  you  to  abuse  us  all  in  this  way'— what  would 
you  say  to  him  ?  Certainly  something  absurd  ;  for  I  defy  you 
to  answer  anything  sensible  to  such  a  question,  in  your  present 
position.  You  see,  then,  my  dear  Fabricius  Marat,  that  in  order 
to  be  worthy  of  your  name,  you  must  give  up  the  royal  kitchen, 
the  royal  stable,  and  the  royal  palace.  You  must  leave  all  this, 
in  order  to  be  proclaimed  a  real,  true,  out-and-out,  heroic,  half- 
starved  republican — or  I  shall  not  believe  that  you  are  one — I 
shall  not  believe  in  Olinska  or  Olinski— so,  look  to  it !" 

So  saying,  Danton  pointed  his  phrase  with  a  loud  laugh,  and  an 
amicable  tap  on  the  shoulder,  which  almost  knocked  down  Marat. 

"  There  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say,"  said  Marat ;  "  one 
owes  oneself  to  one's  country  ;  but.  as  you  have  spoken  freely 
about  me,  let  me  tell  you  as  freely  my  opinion  of  you.  I  re- 
spect your  principles  more  than  I  do  your  character.  You  are 
what  the  Saviour  called  a  whitened  sepulchre — men  of  whom 
Juvenal  wrote — 

Qui  Curio*  simulant  et  bacchanalia  viv&nt : 
a  patriot,  but  a  patriot  stuffed  with  truffles.  " 
N 


152  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"What  then  !  do  you  think  God  intended  that  the  elephant 
should  live  on  a  grain  of  rice  ?  No  !  it  is  the  superior  being  that 
eats  the  most ;  a  superior  being  devours  at  one  meal  what  feeds 
fifty  animals  of  an  inferior  order.  Who  devours  for  his  dessert  a 
whole  grove  of  oranges,  who,  to  obtain  a  blade  of  grass,  treads 
down  a  whole  field  ?  Well — every  one  respects  the  elephant, 
and  all  his  neighbors  are  afraid  of  his  treading  on  their  toes.  If 
I  am  not  a  Curios,  it  is  that  I  think  Curios  was  a  fool  and  a  pig. 
He  ate  his  cabbage  in  abominable  earthenware  pipkins.  Now, 
fee  could  have  served  his  country  quite  as  well,  had  he  fared 
better,  and  eaten  from  silver.  You  were  saying,  too,  friend  Marat, 
that  my  merits  compared  to  yours  were  as  a  thousand  lives  to  a 
million." 

"  I  said  so,  and  I  repeat  it." 

"  What  does  this  prove  ?  That  a  savant  may  say  many  fool- 
ish things.  Depend  upon  it,  that  if  I  werenot  worth  a  thousand 
francs  an  hour.  Abbe  Roy  would  not  have  given  them  me.  Try 
and  get  as  much, — that's  all." 

"I !"  exclaimed  Marat,  "  I  should  blush  to  hold  out  my  hand 
to  the  aristocrats,  were  it  even  for  twenty-four  thousand  francs 
a  day." 

"  You  see.  then,  I  was  right  to  say  that  you  could  not  remain 
in  the  service  of  the  Count  d'Artois,  for  three  francs  seven  sous 
a  day.  Change  your  quarters,  Monsieur  Marat,  change  your 
quarters !" 

As  Dan  ton  pronounced  these  words,  a  great  noise  and  tumult 
was  heard  in  the  street,  and  from  the  windows  the  people  could 
be  seen  rushing  through  the  various  courts  to  ascertain  its  cause. 

Marat  was  not  fond  of  disturbing  himself  uselessly,  but  he 
sent  Mad'lle.  Albertine  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Danton,  neither  disdainful  nor  idle,  got  up  at  the  first  sounds, 
rushed  to  the  window  of  the  corridor,  and  put  his  head  out  to 
catch  the  rumor  which  rose  from  the  street,  with  a  sort  of  gusto, 
as  a  connoisseur  tastes  wines. 

After  all,  the  cause  of  this  popular  agitation  was  no  other  than 
that  of  the  resignation  of  M.  de  Brienue,  and  the  appointment  of 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  153 

Neckcr.  The  news  from  the  Palais  Royal  had  reached  the  dis- 
tant quarter  of  the  town  in  which  were  situated  the  Ecuries  d'- 
Artois. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

THE   EFFIGY   OF  THE   PLACE    DAUPHINE. 

MARAT'S  cook  returned  full  of  news. 

"  Oh,  Sir,"  said  she,  "  there  will  be  a  row  !" 

"  A  row,  Albertine  !"  said  Marat,  licking  his  lips  like  a  cat  in 
anticipation  of  its  prey ; "  who  is  going  to  make  a  row  ?" 

"  Why,  the  workmen  and  the  students ;  they  are  already  cry- 
ing, '  vive  Necker  !'  " 

"  Well— there's  no  harm  in  that,  for  Necker  is  minister  now." 

"  Ah !  they're  crying,  vive  something  else  !" 

«  The  devil  they  are.    What  is  it  T 

"ViveleParlement!" 

"  Why  should  they  cry  long  live  the  parliament  ?    Since, 
spite  of  all  Louis  XIV  and  Louis  XV  could  do,  it  still  lives  !" 

"  But  this  is  not  all ;  there's  something  more  horrid  still." 

"  Something  horrid  ?  let's  have  it,  Albertine  !" 

"  Why,  actually  they  are  shouting,  '  Down  with  the  Court  /'  " 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ?"  said  Danton. 

"I  heard." 

"  Why,  that  is  a  seditious  cry  !" 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Marat,  making  a  sign  to  his  guest,  "the 
Court  has  been  horribly  misled  by  de  Brienne." 

"  If  you  only  heard,"  said  Abertine,  "  how  the  people  talk 
about  Brienne  and  another !" 

"  What's  that  other's  name,?" 

'•  Monsieur  de  Lamoignon." 

"  Our  worthy  keeper  of  the  Seals  !    What  have  they  to  say 
of  him  ?" 

20 


154  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

"  Oh,  they  cry,  '  to  the  stake,  Brienne  !— to  the  stake.  L*. 
nioignon  !'  " 

The  two  men  exchanged  significant  glances— the  one  as  if  to 
say, 

"  Does  not  this  emeute  come  from  your  club,  citizen  Marat !" 
Whilst  the  other's  look  said  : 

"  Is  there  not  some  of  the  princes'  gold  amongst  these  people  ? 
Your  princes,  Danton,  are  the  natural  enemies  and  rivals  of  the 
King  and  the  Court  ?" 

The  noise,  however,  like  a  thunder-storm  lost  in  the  distance, 
gradually  diminished,  until  it  was  at  last  entirely  inaudible. 
Marat  resumed  his  questions  to  Albertine: 

"  Where  may  these  worthy  people  be  going  '?" 

'  To  the  Place  Dauphine." 

"  What  are  they  going  to  do  there  ?" 

"  They  are  going  to  burn  M.  de  Brienne." 

"  What !  Burn  an  Arch-bishop  !" 

"  Only  in  effigy,  Sir."  said  Albertine,  apologetically. 

"  In  effigy  or  in  person,"  said  Danton,  "  there  will  be  some 
sport.  Won't  you  come  and  see  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  any  hard  knocks,  my  good  friend  ;  and 
that  is  all  that  is  to  be  had  there." 

Danton  doubled  his  mighty  fist;  and,  looking  at  it  complai- 
santly  exclaimed — 

"  There  is  the  difference  between  us  !  I  can  satisfy  my  curi- 
osity  without  any  danger  to  myself;  whilst  you"  — 

"  Whilst  I  prefer  remaining  at  home — being  neither  curious 
nor  fond  of  fighting." 

"  Adieu,  then,' I  am  off  to  the  Place  Dauphine." 

"  Meantime,  I  will  finish  my  chapter  of  Potocki.  I  am  just 
about  describing  a  calm,  beautiful  landscape  by  moonlight." 

"  Hark  !"  exclaimed  Danton,  "  I  hear  the  firing  of  musketry  j 
yes,  there  it  is  again !  Adieu,  adieu !" 

With  these  words  he  rushed  from  the  room,  whilst  Marat  sat 
down  at  his  desk  with  a  sort  of  chuckle,  and  began  mending  a 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF   BLOOD.  155 

pen— a  luxury  which  he  only  indulged  in  on  very  particular  occa- 
sions ;  after  which  he  set  to  work  as  usual. 

Both  Danton  and  Albertine  were  right ;  there  was  an  6mcute, 
and  the  crowd,  increasing  at  every  step,  was  making  its  way  to 
the  Place  Dauphine,  shouting  as  it  went  along :  "  Vive  lo  Parle- 
ment !— Vivo  Necker !  Down  with  de  Brienne  !  down  with 
Lamoignon !" 

As  it  was  getting  towards  evening,  the  crowd  was  soon  strength- 
ened by  the  workmen  coming  from  their  work  ;  the  clerks  from 
their  offices,  the  shop-keepers,  too,  standing  idly  at  their  doors 
awaiting  the  hour  of  supper,  joined  in  the  cry  and  in  the  discus- 
sion. 

The  e"meute  began  by  a  universal  charivmri,  consisting  of  tin 
sauce-pans  and  frying-pans,  beaten  with  shovel  and  tongs.  It 
commenced  at  the  same  hour,  in  all  parts  of  Paris.  Who  had 
organized  it,  who  had  begun  it,  none  knew ;  but  so  it  was,  on 
this  26th  of  August,  this  noise,  emanating  from  all  parts,  com- 
ing down  all  the  streets,  until  it  united  in  one  vast  tumult. 

The  centre  of  this  movement  appeared  to  be  the  Place  Dau. 
phine,  the  adjacent  streets,  and  the  Pont  Neuf.  There  the  crowd 
was  intense.  First  of  all,  the  charivarians ;  and  then  the  crowds 
to  see  the  charivarians,  forming  a  dense  mass,  over  which,  in 
calm,  immoveable  majesty,  sat  Henri  IV  on  his  bronze  horse. 

A  singular  feature  in  the  Parisians  is  the  love  they  have  always 
borne  for  this  successor  of  the  last  of  the  Valois.  To  what  can 
this  enduring  affection  be  owing?  It  is  impossible  to  decide; 
but  so  it  is.  His  popularity  has  passed  unimpaired  through  sev- 
eral generations.  Does  he  owe  it  to  his  wit  ?  to  his  somewhat 
capricious  good  nature,  or  to  his  adventures  amongst  the  pea- 
santry and  the  bourgeois?  Are  his  loves  with  Qabrielle,  its 
source  ?  or  his  quarrels  with  D'Aubignfc.  Perhaps  all  these  uni- 
ted. Now,  in  this  circumstance  as  in  all  others  of  a  popular 
character,  Henri  IV  became  an  object  of  attention,  and  everybody 
as  he  passed,  saluted  the  bronze  image  of  this  popular  hero.  As 
crowds  became  more  dense,  the  people,  of  their  own  private 
authority,  and  in  interest  of  their  personal  safety,  decreed  that 


156  INGENUE  J    OR, 

no  carriages  should  be  allowed  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  that  all 
those  who  came  in  carriages  should  be  made  to  salute  the  statue 
of  Henri  IV  before  being  allowed  to  proceed  on  their  way. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  the  third  carriage  that  arrived  at  the 
foot  of  the  bridge  was  that  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  work,  we  have  given  an  account  of 
the  Duke  of  Orleans ;  it  will  be  remembered,  therefore,  that  by 
his  anglo-mania,  his  absurd  bets,  his  shameless  dissipations,  and 
above  all,  his  sordid  speculations,  he  had  lost  that  influence  over 
the  people  which  his  family  had  possessed,  and  which  Mirabeau 
contrived  to  regain  for  him  some  time  after. 

No  sooner  did  the  crowd  recognize  the  Duke,  than  with  no 
more  ceremony,  or  perhaps  with  a  little  less,  they  stopped  the 
horses,  and  taking  them  by  the  bridle,  led  them  to  the  foot  of 
the  statue  of  Henry  IV.  Then,  in  a  tone  which  admits  of  no 
reply,  because  it  is  not  the  voice  of  one  man,  nor  of  ten  men, 
but  the  inexorable  voice  of  the  people  which  speaks,  the  Duke 
was  desired  to  bow  to  the  statue. 

The  Duke,  polite  and  smiling  as  ever,  complied  immediately ; 
and  having  alighted  from  his  carriage,  turned  and  bowed  to  the 
multitude. 

"  Bow  to  the  statue  !  bow  to  Henry  IV !"  shouted  the  crowd. 

"  Bow  to  my  great-grand-fa thcr,  to  the  father  of  the  people  ? 
— most  willingly,  gentlemen !  To  you  he  is  only  a  good  King, 
whilst  to  me  he  is  an  illustrious  ancestor."  So  saying,  he  made 
a  profound  bow  to  the  statue. 

Charmed  by  the  smiles,  the  bow,  and  the  words  of  the  Duke, 
they  applauded  enthusiastically./ 

In  the  midst  of  these  testimonials  of  popularity,  of  which  the 
Duke  was  so  fond,  he  was  proceeding  to  get  into  his  carriage, 
when  a  gigantic,  unshaven,  dirty,  ill-dressed  man,  with  a  leather 
apron,  and  a  bar  of  iron  in  his  hand,  indicating  him  to  be  a  black- 
smith, approached  the  Duke ;  .and  putting  his  heavy  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  vociferated  in  his  ear : 

"Bow  a  little  less  to  your  illustrious  ancestor,  and  imitate 
him  a  little  more."  ,  »-. 


THK   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  157 

"  Gentlemen,"  answered  the  Duke,  "  I  do  all  I  can,  but  I  am 
not  King  of  France,  as  Henri  IV  was,  and  as  Louis  XVI  is.  I 
can  do  nothing  for  the  people  but  share  my  fortune  with  it;  that 
I  have  already  done ;  that  I  am  ready  to  do  again." 

With  these  words  the  Duke  once  more,  with  a  proud  step, 
turned  to  get  into  his  carriage ;  but  the  blacksmith  had  not  done 
with  him. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "now  you  have  bowed,  you  must  shout: 
1  Vive  Henri  IV !'  » 

"  Yes,"  bellowed  the  crowd ;  «  say  «  Vive  Henri  IV !' » 

The  Prince  complied  with  a  smile,  and  cried :  "  Vive  Henry 
IV  !"  and  ten  thousand  voices  echoed  him. 

This  done,  the  Duke  was  allowed  to  re-enter  his  carriage,  and 
drove  away  along  the  quays,  amidst  the  applauding  shouts  of  the 
multitude. 

Scarcely  was  the  Duke's  equipage  out  of  sight,  when  a  carriage 
in  which  was  a  priest  looking  pale  and  anxious,  drove  up.  The 
people  recognized  him  instantly,  and  a  thousand  arms  were 
menacingly  extended  towards  him. 

-it  is  the  AI.Ke  Vermont!"  yelled  the  five  hundred  voices 
appertaining  to  the  thousand  arms. 

"The  AbW  Vermont!"  shouted  the  blacksmith  with  sten- 
torian lungs ;  "  to  the  stake  with  him !  the  Abb6  Vermont,  the 
adviser  of  the  Queen !  to  the  stake !  to  the  stake !" 

u  To  the  stake !  to  the  stake !"  repeated  the  crowd,  with  a 
unanimity  very  alarming  for  the  priest. 

Now,  the  abbe"  was  not  in  good  odor  among  the  people.  The 
son  of  an  obscure  village  doctor,  he  had  been  successively  one  of 
the  theologians  of  the  Sorbonne,  then  librarian  of  the  College 
Mazarin  ;  finally,  had  been  appointed  in  1769,  on  the  recom- 
mendation of  the  very  M.  de  Brienne  the  people  were  burning  in 
effigy — reader  to  the  future  Dauphiness  of  France.  That  post  had 
been  occupied  successively,  until  then,  by  two  French  actors. 
But  the  Abbe  Vermont,  though  ostensibly  sent  to  perfect  the 
young  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  French  language,  had  been  chosen 
by  M.  de  Choisel,  the  creature  of  Maria-Theresa,  as  a. man  in 


158  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

whom  she  might  implicitly  confide.  The  Empress'  confidence 
was  not  misplaced.  The  Abbe  Vermont  became  a  devoted  par- 
tisan of  the  House  of  Austria,  and  maintained  Marie  Antoinette 
when  she  went  to  France,  in  all  her  Austrian  prejudices— making 
her  thereby  thoroughly  distasteful  to  the  French  courtiers.  The 
confidential  position  of  the  Abbe  being  well  known,  all  the 
imprudences  of  the  youthful  Dauphiness — and  heaven  knows 
they  were  not  few — were  attributed  to  the  influence  and  advice 
of  the  Abbe  Vermont. 

No  sooner  was  he  installed  at  court,  than,  under  the  pretence 
that  his  quality  of  professor  of  languages  included  also  his  being 
professor  of  history,  Monsieur  Moreau,  the  historian  of  the  Queen 
— a  man  of  great  eminence— was  dismissed,  and  the  Abbe  Ver. 
mont  appointed  in  his  stead.  It  was  excited  by  the  sneers  of  the. 
Abbe  Vermont,  that  Marie  Antoinette  had  turned  into  ridicule 
her  first  lady  in  waiting,  the  Duchesse  de  Noailles  ;  and  the  nick- 
name of  Madame  Etiquette,  given  her  by  the  Queen,  was  said  to 
have  been  of  the  Abbe's  invention  and  not  of  her  Majesty's. 
On  her  arrival  at  court,  the  Dauphiness  had  attached  herself  to 
the  aunts  of  the  Dauphine,  the  daughters  of  Louis  XV.  Madame 
Victorie,  one  of  these  Princesses,  was  above  all  the  object  of  her 
preference.  The  Abbe,  growing  alarmed  at  this  friendship,  lest 
it  should  injure  his  own  influence  over  the  Dauphiness,  never 
rested  until  he  had  brought  about  a  breach  with  the  niece  and 
the  aunts.  For  the  same  reason,  he  had  alienated  the  Queen 
from  all  the  high  and  powerful  families  of  France — especially 
from  the  Rohans,  one  of  whom  was  so  fatal  to  her  in  the  affair 
of  the  necklace.  The  Abbe  had  encouraged  the  Queen  in  her 
criticisms  and  sarcasms  on  the  pedantry  of  Madame  Clotilde,  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Louis  XV,  who  had  been  brought  up  by 
Madame  de  Maisan.  It  was  the  Abbe  who,  instead  of  laying 
out  a  serious  course  of  historical  reading  for  his  pupil,  allowed 
her  to  read  anything  and  everything  that  came  in  her  way ;  he 
it  was  who  allowed  her  to  play  all  romping  games,  even  that  one 
known  as  decampativos,  which  so  shocked  the  modesty  of  Marat 
at  the  club.  It  was  the  Abbe  who  had  advised  the  Queen  to  put 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  159 

herself  in  opposition  to  the  King,  and  to  put  herself  at  the  head 
of  a  party,  like  Madame  do  Pompadour,  enforcing  Austrian  poli- 
tics, lie  it  was  who  opposed  the  recall  of  M.  de  Choiscuil.  Again, 
it  was  he  who,  when  the  Arch-Duke  Maximilian  came  to  France 
under  a  feigned  name,  traveling  incognito,  had  prompted  the 
Queen  to  demand  that  he  should  take  precedence  of  the  Princes 
of  the  blood  royal  of  France.  In  fine,  the  Abb6  was  jealous  of 
everybody  who  approached  the  Queen.  Madame  de  Polignac  had 
especially  roused  his  jealousy.  He  had  opposed  her ;  but  find- 
ing that  in  vain,  had,  in  imitation  of  Fleury,  with  Louis  XV, 
grown  sulky  and  retired  from  court,  finding,  however,  that  no 
one  sent  for  him,  he  thought  proper  to  return ;  and  from  that 
time  forward,  had  been  the  friend  of  the  favorite,  whose  power 
he  had  in  vain  tried  to  subvert. 

His  last  and  greatest  offence,  in  the  eyes  of  the  people,  had 
been  the  nomination  of  Monsieur  de  Brienne,  his  former  patron, 
appointed  by  his  influence.  No  wonder,  then,  if  at  the  very 
time  the  people  were  burning  M.  de  Brienne  in  effigy,  the  Abbe 
Vermont  should  grow  pale  and  anxious,  and  the  mob  infuriated, 
when  they  recognized  him. 

The  courtly  priest,  soape-goat  of  the  crimes  of  the  ministry 
and  the  court,  looked  around  him  bewildered,  as  though  he  had 
not  understood  that  the  imprecations  were  addressed  to  him. 
But  soon  he  was  brought  to  a  thorough  knowledge  of  his  situa- 
tion, for  the  door  was  broken  violently  open,  the  Abbe  dragged 
from  the  carriage  and  hurried  on  rapidly  towards  the  Place 
Dauphine. 

All  the  crowd  followed,  to  witness  the  promised  execution. 
Hero,  on  the  Place  Dauphiue,  was  already  prepared  a  pile  of  wood 
and  charcoal,  which  the  neighboring  fruit  and  grocery  stores  had 
been  called  on  to  contribute  for  their  country's  good — which  they 
had  done  with  promptitude  and  enthusiasm.  On  this  was  stand- 
ing a  stuffed  figure,  wearing  the  Cardinal's  robe  and  hat.  On 
the  latter  was  written,  iu  large  characters,  the  name  of  the  delin- 
quent, de  Brienne. 

Around  this  funeral  pile  were  a  crowd  of  boys  and,  rioters, 


160  INGENUE  ;  OR, 

eager  for  the  sport  to  begin.  But  the  ring-leaders  had  decided 
that  the  fire  would  have  a  much  better  effect  in  the  dark,  and 
therefore  awaited  the  close  of  day  to  ignite  it.  It  was,  conse- 
quently with  intense  delight  that  the  inventors  of  the  new  pro- 
gramme, bearing  the  Abbe  de  Vermont,  were  welcomed.  They 
highly  approved  of  burning  the  real  Abbe  as  well  as  the  counter- 
feit Archbishop. 

In  vain  the  unfortunate  Abbe  strove  to  speak.  Those  nearest 
him,  who  would  have  heard  him,  were  pushed  on  and  overpow- 
ered by  those  in  the  rear  —  so  that  the  Abbe's  voice  was 
drowned,  in  a  sea  of  shouts  and  imprecations.  At  last  they 
reached  the  stake.  The  unfortunate  Abb6  was  set  up  against  it, 
and  preparations  were  made  for  the  execution. 

At  this  critical  momentj  a  man  of  powerful  stature  pushed  his 
way  through  the  crowd ;  and,  pointing  with  his  enormous  hand 
towards  the  victim,  exclaimed : 

"  Fools  that  you  are  !     This  is  not  the  Abb6  Vermont  !" 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Danton  !"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  priest ;  "  help 
me !  save  me !" 

Amidst  the  confusion  of  sounds,  Danton's  voice  rose  like  a 
clap  of  thunder. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  is  not  the  Abb<3  de  Vermont  ?" 
exclaimed  those  nearest  him. 

"  I  am  not  the  Abb6  de  Vermont !  I  have  been  trying  to  tell 
you  so  for  the  last  hour !"  -said  the  victim,  much  relieved. 

"  Who  are  you,  then  ?" 

"  The  Abb6  Roy,"  exclaimed  Danton ;  ''  the  great  newsmonger ; 
the  Abbe  of  the  thirty-thousand-men,  as  they  called  him  at  the 
Palais  Royal,  where  he  told  all  the  news  from  Poland  under 
the  tree  of  Cracow — the  Abbe  Roy.  the  great  antagonist  of  the 
Abbe"  de  Vermont ;  the  Abbe  Roy,  the  friend  of  the  people.  By 
Heaven,  you  were  going  to  do  a  pretty  piece  of  work — burning 
the  innocent  for  the  guilty  !" 

And  Danton  laughed  a  loud,  hearty  laugh  ;  and  those  near  him 
joined  in  it,  while  those  afar,  laughed  without  knowing  why,  and 
because  the  others  laughed. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  161 

«  Vive  1'Abbe"  Roy  !  Vive  the  Abbe  of  the  thirty-thoasand- 
men !  The  friend  of  the  people !"  cried  ten  Voices,  multiplied 
first  by  a  hundred,  and  then  by  a  thousand. 

"Well— he's  a  priest,  however;  and  since  we've  got  him,'- 
said  the  blacksmith,  '•  we'll  make  some  use  of  him.  Let  him  get 
up  and  confess  M.  de  Brienne."  • 

"  Yes — but  make  him  repeat  the  confession  aloud." 

"  Yes,  yes  !    Up  with  the  confessor  !" 

The  A 1  ii  >ti  Roy  made  a  sign  that  he  wanted  to  speak. 

"  Silence !"  shouted  Danton.  "  Silence  !"  shouted  the  crowd — 
all  now  under  the  command  of  Danton ;  one  strong  will  is  suf- 
ficient to  lead  a  whole  multitude.  r ..,. 

••  Gentlemen !"  said  the  Abbe,  in  a  voice  clear,  though  still 
rather  tremulous,  "  I  am  very  willing  to  do  what  you  wish,  and 
to  confess  the  criminal ;  but " 

"  Bravo,  bravo !" 

"  Silence  !"  shouted  Danton  again,  and  the  crowd  was  silent. 

"  But;"  continued  the  Abbe.  I  would  wish  first  to  make  one 
slight  remark " 

"  Qo  on  !"  shouted  the  crowd. 

"  That  is,  that  the  Arch-bishop  of  Sens,  being  a  great  sinner — " 

"  Yes !  a  great  sinner  !    Well  ?" 

"  Consequently,  he  will  have  a  great  many  sins  to  confess  ;  his 
confession  will,  therefore,  be  very  long — so  long  that  you  may 
probably  not  have  time  to  burn  him  to-day." 

"  Never  mind,  then,  we'll  burn  him  to-morrow." 

"  Yes ;  but,  gentlemen,  the  Lieutenant  of  Police,  the  Chevalier 
du  Guet?"  (the  night-vatch.) 

"  Ah,  that's  true  !"  groaned  the  crowd. 

"  Therefore,  I  suggest,  that  it  is  better  to  burn  him  without 
confession." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo !  Agreed  !  agreed !  Vive  the  Abbe"  Roy !  To 
the  stake  with  Brienne  !  to  the  stake  !" 

Then  the  crowd  divided.  Some  formed  a  triumphal  arch  with 
their  arms,  under  which  the  delighted  Abbe,  who  had  so  nearly 
paid  for  another's  sins,  passed  as  rapidly  as  his  trembling  limbs 
21 


162  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

could  carry  him.  Others  proceeded  to  set  light  to  the  pile  they 
had  made,  whilst  the  rest,  resuming  their  infernal  music  on  the 
pots  and  pans,  danced  and  shouted  in  expectation  of  this  auto 
dafe. 

At  length,  about  nine  o'clock,  the  windows  of  all  the  house, 
being  illuminated  with  lamps  or  candles,  a  man  dressed  in  red 
to  represent  the  executioner,  bearing  aloft  a  lighted  torch, 
approached  the  stake  and  set  fire  to  the  pile.  Immediately  the 
wood  began  to  crackle  and  blaze ;  then  wild  shouts  rent  the  air ; 
then,  like  demons  danced  the  crowd  in  the  red  glare  of  the 
flames — less  ardent,  less  brilliant,  than  the  glances  which  shone 
like  those  of  the  damned  in  Dante's  Inferno. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

INGENUE. 

LET  us  for  a  while  leave  the  Place  Dauphine,  with  its  flaming 
pile,  its  saturnalia,  its  charivari,  its  crowd,  and  its  noise,  and 
repair  to  another  part  of  Paris,  where  reigns  silence  and  dark- 
ness. 

Dark  and  still,  as  is  now  this  portion  to  which  we  allude, 
there  will  come  a  time  when  it  shall  be  aroused  to  strife,  and 
when  it  will  send  forth  flames  and  crackling  fires,  more  ardent 
and  destructive  than  any  that  either  Vesuvius  or  Etna  have 
showered  upon  earth,  since  the  days  of  Empidocles,  or  Pliny  the 
ancient. 

In  the  Rue  de  Montreuil,  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  was 
situated  a  magnificent  mansion  belmiging  to  Reveillon,  a  paper- 
hanger,  whose  name,  thanks  to  the  events  of  the  revolution,  has 
become  historical. 

At  this  time,  tho'  his  name  had  not  attained  European  cele- 
brity, it  was  still  very  well  known  in  the  neighbourhood^vhere 


THE   FIBST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  163 

he  lived,  as  appertaining  to  a  man  of  great  industry  and  worth, 
and  possessing  universal  and  unlimited  credit.  Reveillou  was 
possessed  of  a  large  fortune,  and  had  more  than  five  hundred 
workmen  in  his  establishment,  to  each  of  whom  he  gave  five  or 
six  francs  a  day  ;  and  the  steady  activity  of  this  manufactory, 
promised  a  fortune  of  which  it  was  impossible  to  see  the  limits. 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  about  ReveUlon ;  but  perhaps, 
after  all,  he  is  not  well  known.  We  do  not  pretend  to  know 
more  of  Reveillon  than  any  other  historian,  and  can,  therefore, 
merely  relate  what  was  said  at  this  time  of  Reveillon,  and  what  has 
been  said  since.  He  owed  his  celebrity  merely  to  accidental  cir- 
cumstances, which  dragged  him  before  the  public — leaving  him 
astonished  and  dazzled  at  his  own  fame,  like  an  owl  dragged,  from 
the  obscurity  of  a  hollow  tree  into  broad  daylight. 

Reveillon,  according  to  the  Jacobins — apropos  of  the  Jaco- 
bins, those  who  make  the  Jacobins  date  from  '90  and  '01,  are  in 
error ;  the  Jacobins,  so  called  from  the  place  in  which  they  held 
their  meetings,  existed  long  before  that  period,  and  long  before 
the  period  of  which  we  are  writtng.  Revcillon,  then,  according 
to  the  Jacobins,  was  hard,  bitter,  and  avaricious.  He  had  tried 
to  reduce  the  pay  of  his  workmen.  He  had,  in  fact,  tried  to  put 
into  practice  the  theory  of  Messrs.  Flesselles  &  Berthier,  who 
had  replied  to  a  remark  on  the  misery  of  the  people : 

"When  the  people  have  no  bread,  let  them  eat  grass— my 
hoi-ses  eat  it." 

According  to  the  Royalists,  Reveillon  was,  on  the  contrary, 
an  honest  citizen,  living  as  his  father  had  done  before  him,  some- 
what of  a  free-thinker,  somewhat  of  a  politician,  somewhat  of 
a  miser ;  but  virtuous,  full  of  conventionalities  and  prejudices, 
and  all  such  qualities  as  in  the  revolutionary  crucible  become 
vices. 

Reveillon.  having  a  position,  necessarily  had  enemies.  He  was, 
however,  much  looked  up  to  by  the  quarter  he  inhabited — a  man 
who  has  five  hundred  workmen  at  his  command,  becomes  a  man 
of  influence  in  times  of  popular  tumult. 

On  this  day,  a  day  of  popular  tumult  if  there  ever  was  one. 
0. 


164  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

Reveillon  was  quietly  seated  at  supper  in  his  comfortable  dining- 
room,  ornamented  with  the  original  designs  of  his  pictorial 
papers,  for  which  he  had  paid  artists  of  merit,  handsomely. 

The  silver  plate,  more  massive  than  elegant ;  the  fine  table- 
linen,  the  substantial  viands,  well-cooked  and  well-seasoned ;  a 
generous  wine  from  the  vineyards  of  Touraine,  formed  an  agree- 
able if  not  a  splendid  feast,  at  which  were  seated  six  persons. 
First  and  foremost,  M.  Reveillon,  whose  name  having  become 
historical,  is  equal  to  a  patriot.  Then  his  two  children  and  his 
wife— his  excellent  wife.  Besides  these,  there  were  an  old  man 
and  a  young  girl. 

The  old  man  wore  a  long  coat  of  an  uncertain  color,  which 
had  probably  once  been  olive.  It  was  at  least  fifteen  years  old, 
as  the  peculiar  cut,  the  worn  seams,  and  the  thread-bare  cloth 
indicated.  It  was  evidently  not  poverty,  but  an  intense  indiffer- 
ence, which  made  this  man  still  continue  to  wear  such  a  gar- 
ment— particularly  when  he  had  such  a  neighbor  as  the  young 
girl  at  his  side.  His  head  was  long  and  narrow,  expanding, 
however,  towards  the  temples.  His  eye  was  bright  and  spark- 
ling, the  mouth  thin  and  sarcastic ;  his  hair,  white  and  thin,  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  age.  although  at  this  time  he  was  but 
fifty-four. 

He  was  called  Retif  de  la  Bretonne ;  and  this  name,  well  known 
a»d  even  popular  at  that  time,  has  not  been  quite  lost  through 
all  the  intervening  years.  He  had  written  as  many  volumes  as 
many  of  his  cotemporaries  had  lines. 

His  old  and  historical  great  coat,  to  which  he  had  not  addressed 
any  sonnets,  like  many  poets  of  our  day,  but  of  which  he  has 
made  honorable  mention  in  his  confessions,  was  the  object  of  the 
constant  care  and  attention  of  the  young  girl,  who  sat  on  the 
left  hand  of  M.  Reveillon. 

.  This  young  girl,  a  sweet  and  fresh  flower  nurtured  in  tl;e 
atmosphere  of  a  printing-office,  bore  the  name  of  Ingenue.  Her 
father  had  given  her  a  romantic  name,  not  to  be  found  in  the  saints' 
calendar,  which  the  revolution  was  destined,  by-the-by,  tc  change 
into  a  list -of  fruits  and  flowers.  Her  father  delighted  in  this 


THE    FIBST   DAYS    OF   BLOOD.  165 

name,  because  it  was  the  name  of  a  heroine,  and  loved  her  more 
as  the  model  of  a  heroine  than  as  a  daughter. 

This  beautiful  young  creature  fully  deserved  her  name.  Her 
fine  and  melting  blue  eyes  beamed  with  truth  and  earnestness; 
her  small,  full  lips  were  parted  by  a  smile  which  had  at  once 
gentleness  and  a  vague  wonder  at  the  world,  now  opening  before 
her.  Harmonious  features,  embelished  with  a  white,  smooth 
skin,  and  shaded  by  long,  soft,  silky  hair,  of  a  light  chestnut 
color ;  well  formed  hands  and  pretty  feet — such  was  Ingenue  at 
fifteen. 

Ingenue,  with  her  rounded  and  budding  form,  her  graceful 
carriage  and  her  bright,  truthful  glance,  gave  a  charm  to  the 
simple  printed  linen  dress  which  she  wore.  Whatever  the  mate- 
rial, the  native  elegance  of  the  wearer  gave  such  distinction  to 
her  dress,  that  it  required  all  the  indifference  of  Retif  de  la  Bre- 
tonne  to  persevere  in  wearing  his  old  coat,  when  he  walked  with 
her  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

At  the  moment  we  introduced  our  reader  into  the  dining-room, 
Retif  was  relating  to  the  daughters  of  Revcillon  a  moral  tale, 
which  he  interrupted  frequently,  to  swallow  some  of  the  remains 
of  a  dessert,  which  must  have  been  splendid,  before  the  havoc  he 
had  made  in  it. 

Rdtif  had  an  enormous  appetite,  but  the  movement  of  his  jaws 
never  interfered  with  the  motion  of  his  tongue. 

Reveillon.  who  did  not  feel  as  great  an  interest  in  the  moral 
tales  of  He  tit",  as  his  daughters — perhaps  because  he  knew  better 
than  they  the  morality  of  the  narrator — began,  towards  the  end 
of  the  dinner,  to  talk  politics  with  his  guest. 

"  You,  who  are  a  philosopher,  my  dear  Retif,"  said  he.  in  that 
supercilious  tone  which  men  of  money  assume  to  men  of  letters, 
"  pray  explain,  whilst  you  are  discussing  those  biscuits,  how  it  is 
that  we  are  every  day  losing  our  national  spirit  ?" 

This  formidable  proposition  alarmed  the  ladies  ;  they  exchanged 
glances,  and  immediately  rose — leaving  the  gentlemen  to  carry 
on  the  discussion  as  they  pleased,  whilst  they  repaired  to  th« 
garden. 


166  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"  Don't  go  far,  Ingenue,"  said  Reveillon,  rising,  and  shaking  off 
the  crumbs  which  had  accumulated  on  his  coat. 

"  I  am  close  at  hand,  and  will  come  when  you  call  me,  papa," 
replied  Ingenue.  x 

"  Charming  child— is  she  not,  Reveillon  ?"  said  Retif,  as  he 
looked  after  her,  delighted  at  this  act  of  obedience,  as  all  fathers 
are  who  are  governed  by  their  children,  while  persuaded  that 
they  govern  them;  "the  staff  of  my  old  age,  the  consolation  of 
my  declining  years.  Oh,  the  joy  of  paternal  affection  !" 

At  these  words,  R6tif  raised  his  eyes,  with  a  sanctimonious 
air,  to  Heaven. 

"  You  must  be  devilishly  joyful,"  observed  Reveillon. 

"  Why  so,  my  good  friend  ?" 

"  Because,  if  we  are  to  believe  those  who  pretend  to  know  your 
Monsieur  Faublas,  you  have  at  least  a  hundred  children  to 
rejoice  in." 

The  novel  of  Faublas,  by  Lovet  de  Couvray,  was  then  at  the 
height  of  Fashion. 

"  Rousseau  was  right,"  replied  Retif,  somewhat  confused :  "  why 
should  I  not  follow  his  example — if  not  in  talent,  at  least  in  other 
ways  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  the  paper-hanger,  "  if  all  your  hundred  children 
are  like  Ingenue,  you  may  congratulate  yourself  on  having  a  fine 
family ;  and  you  cannot  scribble  too  much,  to  support  them. 

Reveillon  was  rather  of  opinion  that  a  sheet  of  paper  had  more 
value  before  than  after  it  was  written  on. 

"  You  know  not  the  capabilities  of  a  sheet  of  paper,"  said 
Retif. 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  tell  me  what  you  are  doing  now,  my  dear 
Nocturnal  Spectator." 

Retif  was  then  publishing  a  paper  by  this  title,  on  the  Model 
of  Mercier's  Picture  of  Paris — only  Mercier  described  it  by  day, 
and  Retif  by  night. 

"What  am  I  doing?" 

"Yes." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  167 

Well,  I  am  making  the  plan  of  a  work  which  will  revolution- 
ize   Paris ! 

"Revolutionize  Paris!  Only  that?"  said  Reveillon  with  a 
scoffing  laugh; "really,  that  is  no  easy  thing!" 

"  Oh  I"  replied  R6tif,  with  that  presumption  which  belongs  to 
men  of  imagination ;  "  not  so  difficult,  perhaps,  as  you  imagine." 

"  What,  in  spite  of  the  Oardes-Fran9aises  ? — of  the  Guet — of 
the  Swiss  gard  ;  of  the  Gardes-du-Corps— of  M.  de  Bison?— of 
M.  de  Bazenval !  My  dear,  Retif  I  think  you  had  better  not 
try  to  revolutionize  Paris." 

Either  from  prudence  or  disdain,  the  author  of  the  Nocturnal 
Spectator  did  not  continue  the  discussion;  but,  remembering 
Reveillon's  first  question,  he  said : 

"  You  were  asking  me,  were  you  not,  how  it  happened  that  we 
were  losing  our  nationality  ?". 

'•  I  was ; — can  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  It  is,"  replied  Retif,  because  the  French  people  have  always 
been  what  their  chiefs  have  made  them — they  have  from  them 
taken  their  spirit  and  their  character,  from  the  day  the  people 
proclaimed  their  Pnaramond  King,  and  raised  him  on  his  shield, 
as  chief  of  all.  From  that  hour  the  French  have  been  succes- 
sively under  Charlemagne,  under  Hugh  Capet,  under  St.  Louis, 
under  Philip  Augustus,  under  Francis  I,  under  Henri  IV,  and 
under  Louis  XIV.  But  to  which  of  these  great  men  can  you 
compare  Louis  XVI  ?" 

"  Yet  if  not  great."  said  Reveillon,  laughing ;  "  he  is  a  very 
good  kind  of  man,  after  all." 

(;  A  good  kind  of  man !  a  good  kind  of  man  !    What  is  there 
surprising  in  that,  do  you  think  ?     When  the  French  people  say, 
1  our  king  is  a  great  man,'  or  '  our  king  is  a  great  hero,'  they 
desire  to  be  worthy  of  him,  and  to  become  great  men  or  heroes, 
that  he  may  be  as  proud  of  them  as  they  are  of  him.   But  what 
are  they  to  do  for  a  good  kind  of  man  ?    Who  cares  for  him  ? 
who  is  proud  of  him  ?   They  shrug  their  shoulders— that's  all 
but  there  is  no  more  patriotism,  no  more  nationality." 
0* 


168  INGENUE  ;    03, 

"  You  must  always  have  your  joke,  friend  R6tif,"  said  Reveil 
Ion. 

But  he  was  mistaken ;  this  time  Retif  was  not  joking— he  was 
speaking  seriously. 

"  If  we  leave  the  King  aside,"  continued  he  earnestly,  "  content 
with  his  being  a  good,  honest  man,  what  do  we  find  under  him  in 
authority  ?" 

"  No  great  things,  I  allow,"  replied  Reveillon. 

"  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Aiguillon,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Never  mind  him — he  is  done  for." 

"  Monsieur  Maupon  ?" 

"Ah!  ah!" 

"  You  laugh  at  these  ministers  ;  but  let  me  tell  you  that  they 
were  geniuses,  compared  to  your  Messieurs  de  Brienne  and 
Lamoignon." 

"  But  they,  too,  have  been  dismissed,  and  Monsieur  Necker  has 
been  appointed." 

"  From  Charybdis  to  Scylla— from  bad  to  worse." 

"  Well,  after  all,  you  are  right,  RStif.  I  see  it  now.  We  have 
no  nationality,  no  patriotism,  because  we  have  no  leaders.  I 
wonder  I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

Retif  was  enchanted  at  the  way  in  which  his  idea  had  been 
appreciated. 

"  Well,  but  friend  Reveillon,"  said  he,  (t  the  impression  this 
idea  has  made  on  you " 

"  It  has  made  a  very  great  impression  on  me."  said  Reveillon 

"  From  purely  the  interest  of  the  fact,  or  from  personal  mo- 
tives ?" 

"  Well,  I  confess  that  I  had  a  personal  motive  for  putting  the 
question,  and  a  personal  motive  for  being  delighted  with  your 
answer." 

'Indeed!" 

"Yes,"  replied  Reveillon,  scratching  his  ear,  and  speaking 
slowly  and  solemnly ;  "  I  am  about  to  be  proposed  as  a  member 
of  the  committee  of  electors  of  Paris.  Now,  sir.  if  I  am  nomi- 
nated, I  shall  have  to  make  a  speech ;  I  shall  have  to  declare 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  169 

my  principles.  Now,  the  loss  of  patriotism  in  France  will  be  a 
fine  subject,  and  will  tally  well  with  my  known  devotion  to 
the  people!  Your  way  of  developing  this  idea  has  pleased  mo 
much ;  it  will  just  suit  me ;  I  shall  make  great  use  of  it." 

"The  D — 1  you  will!"  exclaimed  Retif. 

"  Why  do  you  say  the  D— 1  you  will  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  except  that  I  shall  have  to  look  out  for  an- 
other subject." 

"Another  subject,  for  what?" 

-  Why  for  a  pamphlet     I  had  just  found  this  subject ;  that  was 
the  one  I  told  yon  would  revolutionize  Paris.     But  if  you  want 
it.  take  it,  if  it  can  be  of  any  use  to  you  ;  why,  I'll  find  another, 
that's  all." 

"  I  am  sorry,  though,  to  rob  you,"  said  Reveillon. 
"  Oh,  bah !     A  subject  is  very  easily  found.     Though  that  was 
rather  a  good  one,  and  would  have  made  a  splendid  pamphlet." 

-  Wait  a  little— let  me  think,"  said  Reveillon,  scratching  his 
ear.     '•  I  could  perhaps  manage " 

"  Manage  what  ?" 

"  Why,  this  littie  matter  of  the  speech ;  and  the  pamph- 
let  " 

u  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Retif,  in  a  most  ingenuous 
manner,  as  if  he  had  not  the  least  idea  of  what  Reveillon  want- 
ed to  pay ;  though  he  had  been  waiting  anxiously  for  the  very 
proposition  he  knew  was  coming. 

"  If  you  had  written  this  pamphlet,  dear  Monsieur  Retif."  con- 
tinued Reveillon,  "  it  would  have  been  admirable,  no  doubt,  like 
all  you  write." 

"  You  are  too  good,"  said  Retif. 

"  It  could  not  have  increased  your  fame,"  pursued  the  trades- 
man ;  "that  is  too  great  to  admit  of  increase." 

Retif  bowed. 

"  But,  dear  Retif,  it  would  probably  have  increased  your 
funds." 

"  It  would,"  said  Retif;  "  and  besides,  it  would  have  pleased 
22 


170  IXGEXTTE  ;    OR, 

my  good  friend  Mercier,  who  writes  me  such  beautiful  puffs  in 
his  paper."" 

"  Well,  you  can  find  some  other  way  of  pleasing  him.  whilst 
I — I  cannot  so  easily  find  another  subject — one  so  exactly  suited 
to  my  position." 

"  You  are  right  there — it  would  be  difficult." 

"  What  I  would  propose,  then,  is  this " 

Retif  opened  his  eyes  and  ears. 

"You  shall  write  the  pamphlet,  as  you  intended,  and  when  it 
is  done,  you  shall  let  me  have  the  manuscript.  I  will  be  your 
public,  and  buy  up  the  whole  edition  before  it  is  printed — so  that 
you  will  be  at  no  expense  for  printing,  paper,  binding  and  so 
forth.  What  do  you  say  to  this,  Monsieur  Retif,  eh  ?" 

"I  see  one  great  obstacle." 

"  Out  with  it !" 

"  It  is  simply  that  you  do  not  know  how  I  compose  ;  how  I 
write." 

"  Like  other  people,  I  suppose ;  like  Messieurs  Rousseau,  de 
Voltaire,  d'Alembert,  and  Diderot,  do  you  not  ?" 
•  ';  Not  at  all.  You  knoyr  that  I  am  printer  as  well  as  an 
author ;  so,  instead  of  first  writing  my  works,  like  other  people, 
I  print  them  at  once  ;  instead  of  a  pen,  I  use  a  composing  stick, 
and  set  up  the  sentences,  the  words,  the  ideas,  as  they  originate 
in  my  brain.  .  Or  rather,  my  work  comes  into  the  world  like 
Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jupiter " 

"  All  armed,"  interrupted  Reveillon  ;  "  I  have  that  pattern  on 
one  of  my  papers — a  very  handsome  thing  it  is,  too." 

"  This,  however,  does  not  mean  to  say  that  I  do  not  agree  to 
your  proposition." 

"  I  am  delighted  !» 

''  And  I,  charmed,  to  be  able  to  offer  you  anything  agreeable. 
I  must,  however,  warn  you  that,  being  once  set  up " 

"  Oh  !"  said  Reveillon,"  you  can  set  it  up  here  in  my  manufac- 
tory— we  have  a  press,  you  know  5  and  as  for  paper,  you  can  take 
your  choice." 

"  But " 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOl).  171 

K  Let  us  have  no  buts,"  said  Reveillon,  eagerly ;  "  say  you 
accept,  and  write  me  my  speech  in  your  very  best  manner— not 
too  long,  you  know.  Put  in  something  about  the  Grecian  and 
Roman  republics — the  citizens  of  this  Faubourg  like  to  hear  all 
alKMit  them.  And  now,  let  us  talk  about  business.  How  much 
do  you  think-- — " 

«  Oh,  pray,"  said  Retif,  "  pray  do  not " 

"  Nay — business  is  business." 

u  Allow  me,  pray  allow  me,  to  be  of  some  service  to  you,  my 
dear  friend.  After  twenty  years  of  uninterrupted  friendship, 
you  mortify  me  to " 

"  I  must  insist  on  making  this  a  business  affair.  You  know 
the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire." 

"  Oh,  we  literary  laborers  do  so  much  for  nothing  !"  and  say- 
ing this  with  a  tragic  ware  of  the  hand,  which  made  the  scams 
of  his  coat  crack,  Retif  beared  a  sigh  which  very  much  modified 
the  totie  of  his  voice. 

Reveillon  had  no  idea  of  getting  up  scenes  in  business  matters. 

••  You  know,  Monsieur  Retif,  that  I  am  a  tradesman,  and 
therefore  I  drive  a  hard  bargain ;  if  I  had  not  done  so  all  my 
life,  I  should  not  now  be  as  rich  as  I  am.  But  for  the  same 
reason,  I  pay  for  all  I  buy — nothing  for  nothing.  If  you  were 
to  ask  me  for  one  of  the  designs  of  my  papers,  I  should  not  let 
you  have  it  for  nothing — neither  will  I  accept  your  printed  paper 
for  nothing.  I  therefore  offer  you  a  hundred  francs  down — 
lx?sides  this,  a  magnificent  paper  for  your  two  rooms,  and  a 
handsome  silk  dress  for  Ingenue." 

Reveillon  was  so  well  acquainted  with  Retif's  slovenliness, 
that  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  to  offer  him  a  coat,  of  which 
he  was  so  much  in  need. 

"Done!"  said  Retif,  shaking  hands  with  Reveillon;  "it  is  a 
bargain— a  hundred  francs,  a  fine  new  paper,  and  a  silk  dress 
for  Ingenue.  Ah,  let  me  have  the  paper  with  the  historical  sub- 
jects." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  the  Graces  and  the  Seasons  ?" 

«The  devil!"  replied  Retif,  who  was  dying  to  see  this  very 


172  IXGBNUE  J    OR, 

paper  on  his  walls ;  "  I'm  afraid  the  Seasons  are  a  little  too  spicy 
for  a  young  girl  like  Ingenue.  You  know  they  are  not  very  well 
provided  with  drapery." 

"  Nonsense !"  said  Reveillon ;  "  my  good  good  fellow,  Autumn 
is  the  only  one  who  is  a  little  too  naked— but  then  he  is  such  a 
handsome  young  fellow,  that  we  can  cut  out  a  few  Tine  leaves 
and  cover  up  all  improprieties.  As  for  Spring,  he  holds  his  gar- 
land in  such  a  lucky  manner  that  he's  all  right ;  and  Summer 
will  pass  muster  with  his  reaping  hook.  t  Besides,  you  can't  put 
girls  into  a  band-box,  I  suppose,  you  intend  one  day  that  Inge"- 
nue  should  marry,  don't  you  ?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  my  dear  sir.  I  have  even  been  think- 
ing over  a  plan  for  the  dowry." 

"Indeed!  We  were  saying  then,  a  hundred  francs  for  the 
pamphlet — (Retif  winced) ;  I  beg  your  pardon  for  recapitulating, 
but  I  am  a  man  of  business,  you  know.  The  silk  dress,  which 
Madame  Reveillon  shall  buy,  and  the  paper  of  the  Seasons,  which 
shall  be  put  up  whenever  you  please.  By-the-by,  I  have  forgot- 
ten your  address,  M.  Retif?" 

"Rue  des  Bernardins  near  the  place  aux-Veaux." 

"  And  the  manuscript — when  can  I  have  it  ?" 

"  In  two  days." 

"  Two  days !  what  facility !"  exclaimed  Raveillon ;  "  in  two 
days  to  write  a  speech  which  will  obtain  my  nomination  as  elec- 
tor, and  may  perhaps  lead  to  my  being  myself  elected  deputy  !:> 

"  I  hope  it  may,  I'm  sure.  But  I  must  be  off — what  time  is 
it,  Mons.  Reveillon  ?" 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"  Eight  o'clock !  I  must  call  Ingenue — I  can  waste  no  more 
time." 

"  Oh,  let  her  stay  a  little  longer  with  my  daughters.  Just 
hear  how  they  are  enjoying  themselves  !"  and  Reveillon  opened 
the  door  leading  to  the  garden,  and  let  in  the  sound  of  several 
young  and  fresh  voices  singing  in  chorus  a  merry  roundelay. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  afternoon.  The  roses  and  carnations 
perfumed  the  air,  and  the  trees  waved  gently  in  the  breeze.  Re- 


THK    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  173 

tif  looked  at  these  graceful  figures  that  flitted  before  him,  with  a 
deep  and  melancholy  sigh ;  for  the  sound  of  their  young  voices 
and  the  sight  of  their  bounding  forms  recalled  vividly  to  his 
mind  the  days  of  his  youth— those  days  of  a  wild  and  passionate 
happiness,  the  memory  of  which  caused  his  eyes  to  glisten  and 
his  heart  to  throb — a  happiness  of  which  the  chaste  and  pure 
Ingenue  had  never  dreamed. 

This  sweet  girl,  called  by  the  deep  voice  of  Reveillon  and  the 
shrill  tones  of  Retif,  hastened  to  embrace  her  young  companions. 
-Then,  throwing  over  her  half-covered  shoulders,  a  mantilla  of 
the  same  stuff  as  her  dress,  she  made  a  graceful  courtesy  to 
Madame  Rcveillon,  who  smiled  and  tapped  her  on  the  cheek, 
and  a  bow  to  Monsieur  Reveillon,  who  imprinted  a  paternal  kiss 
on  her  forehead.  Then,  her  bosom  still  heaving,  her  cheek  still 
flushed,  and  her  eye  still  sparkling,  from  her  childish  sports,  she 
placed  her  arm  within  the  folds  of  the  threadbare  coat  which 
covered  her  father's  arm. 

M.  Reveillon,  in  consideration  of  the  bargain  he  had  just  made 
with  Retif,  did  him  the  honor  of  accompanying  him  to  the  door. 
Outside  he  found  a  group  of  his  own  workmen  talking  with  great 
animation,  who,  on  perceiving  their  master,  ceased  talking,  and 
bowed  respectfully. 

Reveillon  replied  with  great  dignity  to  this  salutation ;  then 
stood  for  an  instant  gazing  up  at  the  sky  which,  towards  the 
south,  had  a  strange  red  tinge— then,  with  a  last  wave  of  the 
hand  to  his  retreating  guest,  he  re-entered  the  house. 


114  INGiNUE  ;    OK, 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

I  FATHER     AND     DAUGHTER. 

ODH  illustrious  author,  although  ruminating  as  he  passed 
along  on  the  advantages  of  his  bargain  with  Reveillon,  could  not 
but  observe  the  extraordinary  agitation  around  him.  The 
excited  manner  of  Reveillon's  workmen  had  struck  him.  It 
was  unusual  for  workmen  to  stay  idly  talking  ;  for  when  not  at 
work,  they  were  either  at  the  theatre  or  the  public  house,  or 
asleep  in  their  own  homes. 

Retif,  with  that  spirit  of  observation  which  characterises  a 
journalist,  knew  full  well  the  various  habits  of  all  the  classes  of 
Paris  and  the  various  physiognomies  of  the  people.  By  tbe 
agitation  which  now  reigned  in  the  streets,  Retif  understood  that 
something  extraordinary  had  happened  ;  but  then,  what  could 
happen  ?  except,  perhaps,  that  the  Parisians  were  a  little  more 
discontented  than  usual,  and  that  was  nothing  —  for  they  were 
always  more  or  less  discontented  ;  so,  thinking  no  more  about 
what  was  going  on  around  him,  he  began,  as  in  duty  bound,  to 
entertain  Ingenue  with  a  little  moral  and  instructive  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Fine  house,  that  of  Reveillon,  is  it  not  Ingenue  7"  said  he. 

"  A  very  fine  house,  dear  father." 

"  Yes,  —  and  earned  by  honest  industry." 

"  By  good  luck."  said  Ingenue  ;  "  for  many  work  hard  without 
getting  one." 

"  True,"  replied  her  father. 

"  You,  for  instance,  dear  father,  who  have  so  much  talent,  and 
who  are  so  industrious  ?" 

"True,"  again  said  Retif;  "but  I  have  something  far  better." 

"What  is  that,  Papa?" 

"Yes—  a  treasure." 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  175 

«  Oh,  why  don't  you  produce  it  7" 

"  My  dear  child,  mine  is  a  treasnre  which  cannot  be  shared 
frith  any  other.  I  alonte  can  enjoy  it."  :  «*•" 

"  What  can  it  b«  7" 

"  Well— first,  it  is  a  good  conscience,  which  no  one  can  take 
from  me. 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Ingenue,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

11  Well— you  don't  seem  to  think  this  a  great  treasure  7" 

"Oh,  yes  I  do;  but  then  has  not  everybody  a  clear  con- 
science 7» 

"  Hem !"  said  Retif,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  reply. 
"  Did  not  you  think  Reveillon's  workmen  had  a  queer  look,  just 
now  ?  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  deal  of  agitation  amongst 
them,  I  thought" 

"  These,  too,  who  are  coming,  appear  to  be  excited,"  replied 
Ingenue,  making  room  for  three  or  four  men  to  pass,  who  were 
running  hurriedly  towards  the  quays. 

"  Happy  creatures  !"  exclaimed  RetiP; "  without  care,  when 
once  their  work  is  over,  they  rush  to  their  homes  as  impetuously 
as  we  do  to  our  pleasures.  Happy  creatures,  are  they  not  ?" 

"  Very,"  said  Ingenue,  quietly. 

"  Happy,  too,"  continued  the  man  of  genius,  mounted  on  the 
Pegasus  of  morality ;  "  happy  too,  the  wife,  who  at  evening 
awaits  at  her  cottage  door  the  return  of  her  husband;  whilst 
within  is  heard  the  simmering  of  the  evening  meal,  the  merry 
crowing  of  the  baby,  and  the  song  of  the  elder  children.  He 
comes ;  the  happy  father !  His  children  all  grouped  around 
him.  Presently,  the  savory  soup  steams  before  him  ;  the  children 
share  this  frugal  but  abundant  repast ;  whilst  the  tender  mother, 
feeding  her  youngest  born  from  the  fount  of  nature,  smiles 
lovingl}*  on  all.  What  a  picture !" 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  Ingenue,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  had  not  fol- 
lowed her  father  in  his  pastoral  flight ;  "but  surely  I  hear  a 
strange  noise  yonder !"  and  she  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the 
bridges. 

"  I  only  hear  the  noise  of  carriages,"  replied  Reti£ 
P 


176  INGENUE  J  OR, 

•*""    ,  .  <  • '      .    ^^       * 

"It  is  not  like  that,  but  more  like  the  noise  of  many  voices." 

"  Many  voices  !  Do  you  mean  the  cry  of  a  multitude  ?  Take 
care— don't  make  use  of  exaggerated  expressions— they  do  not 
become  a  young  girl." 

"  I  thought  I  heard" 

"  Well— I  was  saying,  I  think  that  the  poor  are  compara- 
tively happier  than  the  rich,  was  I  not  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  said  Ingenue,   incredulously. 

"  Inasmuch   as  their  happiness  consists  of  material  comfort  • 
and  the  fulfillment  of  their  duties.      You  are  not  listening, 
Ingenue  1     I  see  you  are  looking  at  that  phaeton,  which  the 
horses  are  running  away  with."  <>r.« 

"  I  confess  that  I  am." 

"  Oh,  child  !  Remember  what  Rousseau  the  Genevese  says." 

"  What  does  he  say  papa  ?" 

(t  That  the  wife  of  a  peasant  is  more  estimable  than  the  mistress 
of  a  prince." 

"  More  estimable,  perhaps, — but  happier  ?" 

t:What  happiness  can  there  be  without  the  esteem  of  the 
world  ?  Oh,  Ingenue,  I  have  but  one  desire  in  the  world"- 

"Whatisthat,-papa?" 

"It  is,  my  child,  that  some  honest  workman  may  offer  his 
hand,  hard  with  ennobling  labor,  for  this  pretty  little  one  of 
yours." 

"  Would  you  give  it  him  ?" 

"  Without  hesitation." 

"  Ah,  no,  papa !  for  then  you  would  have  no  one  to  take  care 
of  you  at  home ;  no  one  to  wait  for  your  return  ;  no.  one  to  pre- 
pare your  repast ;  no  one  to  realize  your  idea  of  happines.  No ! 
You  would  sacrifice  your  happiness  for  that  of  another." 

"  To  yours,  my  child ;  it  is  the  duty  of  a  father." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  destined  to  be  happy,"  said  Ingenue. 

There  was  something  so  peculiar  in  the  tone  in  which  she 
uttered  these  words,  that  Retif  was  startled,  and  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  his  daughter ;  but  she  seemed  already  to  have  forgotten 


»      *  ^          *        ' 

THE   KIR3T   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  177 

them,  and  was  looking  about  her  with  an  eagerness  that  rather 
puzzled  him. 

At  this  moment  a  noise  of  a  distant  tumult  became  so  loud 
that  Retif  exclaimed,  "  I  hear  it  now !  I  hear  the  noise !"  and 
immediately  turned  to  the  right. 

"  We  are  going  out  of  our  way,"  exclaimed  Ingenue. 

"  We  are  going  the  right  way  for  me,"  responded  the  father, 
•  for  I  am  going  after  an  article  for  my  Nocturnal  Spectator." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE      KMKL-TE. 

AFTER  a  hasty  walk,  Ingenue  and  her  father  arrived  on  the 
quays,  and  the  mystery  of  the  noise  was  solved. 

'•  It  is  on  the  Place  Dauphine,"  exclaimed  Retif.  "Come 
quickly,  or  we  may  be  too  late." 

As  they  proceeded,  the  crowd  grew  more  dense.  Even  the 
multitude  at  the  foot  of  Pont  Neuf,  who  could  not  so  much  as 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  burning  effigy,  joined  in  the  shouts  of 
those  who  were  dancing  round  the  flames. 

It  was  a  strange  spectacle,  full  of  grotesque-  horror  and 
picturesque  effect.  The  windows,  blazing  with  light  and  filled 
with  people,  whose  faces  were  illuminated  by  the  red  glare 
beneath,  whilst  round  the  blazing  pile  danced  like  demons  in  tho 
flames,  the  yelling  and  furious  multitude.  Retif,  with  his  vivid 
imagination,  was  enchanted.  As  for  his  daughter,  she  began  to 
wish  she  had  not  penetrated  so  far.  She  was  too  much  afraid  of 
the  crowd,  which  almost  tore  her  dress  from  its  gathers,  and  her 
mantilla  from  her  shoulders,  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  before  her. 

Retif,  having  learned  the  cause  of  this  tumult,  joined  in  the 
universal  applause  and  vociferation. 

u  Now,"  though  the, ''  the  principles  of  liberty  and  reform  will 
be  diffused  throughout  the  country  !" 
23 


118  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

But,  just  as  he  was  preparing  to  make  a  little  speech  for  the 
benefit  of  those  nearest  to  him,  a  violent  impetus  was  given  to 
the  crowd,  by  the  dancing  demons  in  front  being  pushed  back 
amongst  it— the  soldiers  of  the  Guet,  or  night-watch,  having 
now  made  their  appearance,  mounted  on  their  horses,  who  were 
snorting  and  rearing  at  the  fire. 

"  Le  Guet !  Le  Guat !  "  cried  many  voices,  in  a  tone  of 
alarm. 

"  Eah  !  Le  Guet  !  who  cares  for  them  ?"  cried  the  students, 
the  sworn  enemies  of  the  night-watch. 

Many  people,,  the  most  obstinate  and  fool-hardy,  refused  to 
move  from  the  vicinity  of  the  fire,  and  resisted  the  authority  of 
the  police. 

At  the  head  of  the  soldiers  marched,  or  rather  galloped,  their 
commander,  the  Chevalier  Dubois — one  of  those  specimens  of  the 
military  police  so  admirable  in  Paris — as  gentle  and  as  spirited 
as  their  horses,  but  inexorable  as  fate. 

This  evening,  Dubois  had  received  strict  orders  from  a  high 
quarter,  and  had  determined  that  the  multitude  should  be  pre- 
vented from  burning  an  archbishop  under  the  very  nose  of  the 
bronze  ancestor  of  the  reigning  King. 

He  had  rushed  precipitately  to  the  scene  of  action,  on  the  first 
alarm,  followed  by  all  the  men  he  could  assemble  on  so  short  a 
notice — consisting  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  men.  With 
these  he  had  forced  his  way  into  the  centre  of  the  Place  Dau- 
phine,  close  to  the  burning  pile,  which  served  as  a  rampart  to  the 
insurgents. 

At  first  he  was  received  with  acclamations,  rather  of  sport 
than  insult.  Then  he  advanced  and  commanded  the  crowd  to 
disperse. 

This  order  was  received  with  jeers  and  laughter.  Then  he 
declared  he  would  order  his  troops  to  charge  on  them,  if  they  did 
wot.  obey. 

To  this  they  replied  by  a  volley  of  stones  and  oaths. 

The  Chevalier  then  turned  to  his  men  and  commanded  them 
to  charge. 


THE   FIRST   DAY3   OF    BLOOD.  179 

The  soldiers  advanced  at  a  gentle  pace,  until  they  had  cleared 
the  way  before  them— then,  putting  themselves  into  a  hard  gal- 
lop, they  drove  the  crowd  before  them,  with  great  alarm  and 
confusion. 

Now,  in  an  6raeute  there  are  always  two  elements— those  who 
make  the  emeute,  and  those  who,  impelled  by  curiosity,  go  to  see 
the  sport — and  it  is  generally  the  latter  who  pay  for  their  fun,  • 
and  serve  as  the  scape-goat  of  tK9  actual  insurgents. 

But  the  ring-leaders  of  this  revolt  were  acting  from  firm  con- 
victions and  patriotic  motives — therefore  they  resisted,  and  stood 
their  ground,  whilst  the  mere  spectators  yielded  and  fled  as  fast 
as  they  could.  Amongst  these  were  Retif  and  Ingenue ;  but 
neither  being  very  strong,  they  were  soon  separated.  Retif 
found  himself  sprawling  in  the  midst,  of  arms,  legs,  wigs,  hats — 
whilst  Ingenue,  suddenly  enveloped  in  an  eddy  of  the  popular 
torrent,  uttered  wild  screams  of  terror  and  dismay. 

Bruised,  pressed  on  all  sides,  pushed  by  rude  men,  Ingenue 
was  on  the  point  of  falling,  too,  and  being  trampled  under  the 
feet  of  the  multitude — when  a  strong  arm  was  placed  around  her 
waist,  and  looking  up,  she  beheld  a  young  man,  who  was  with 
a  powerful  arm  supporting  her  and  trying  to  draw  her  away 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  a  little  energy,  and  you  are  safe  !" 

"  Oh,  heavens !  where  is  my  father  ?" 

"  I  know  not ;  but  for  mercy's  sake,  come  away !  You  will 
be  suffocated ;  trampled  under  foot,  if  you  stay  here.  Come,  I 
beseech  you,  come !" 

"  But  my  father  ?" 

"  Do  not  hesitate,  for  God's  sake  !  The  soldiers  are  preparing 
to  fire,  and  the  balls  cannot  descriminate.  Tou  may  bo  killed  !" 

Ingenue  resisted  no  longer.  Bewildered  with  pain  and  terror 
she  suffered  her  protector  to  drag  her  along  unresisting. 

At  that  moment  a  solitary  detonation  was  heard— it  was  a 
pistol  shot,  which  had  struck  the  commandant  in  the  shoulder. 

Justified  by  this  act  of  aggression,  Dubois  ordered  his  men  to 
fire.  They  obeyed,  and  ten  or  twelve  people  fell. 

Meantime'  Ingenue  and  her  unknown  protector  were  making 


180  INGEXUE  ;    OB, 

the  best  of  their  way  out  of  the  crowd,  into  the  adjacent  streets 
— Ingenue  following  mechanically,  and  occasionally  exclaiming  : 

"  My  father  !  my  poor  father  !" 

"  Your  father,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  unknown,  "  has  proba- 
bly returned  home  in  hopes  of  finding  you  there  already.  Where 
do  you  live  ?" 

"  Rue  des  Bernardins." 

"  Do  you  know  your  way  ?'A 

"  I  never  go  out  alone,"  replied  Ingenue ;  "  I  don't  know  if  I 
could  tell  in  what  direction  to  turn/' 

*  My  friend."  said  the  unknown  protector,  addressing  a  man 
who  was  going  in  the  same  direction  as  himself;  "can  you  tell 
me  how  to  get  to  the  Rue  des  Bernardins  ?" 

The  man  bowed  without  answering,  and  walked  on  before 
them,  making  a  sign  for  them  to  follow. 

After  turning  down  one  or  two  streets,  Ingenue  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  here  we  are  !  this  is  the  street !" 

"  And  now  do  you  think  you  can  find  the  house  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  can,"  replied  Ingenue,  hurrying  on.  She  stopped 
at  last  before  the  door  of  the  house  she  inhabited — a  shabby, 
dirty  bouse,  entered  by  an  alley,  of  which  the  door  was  now 
closed,  and  situated  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  street,  which  was 
but  feebly  lighted  by  the  flickering  lamp  suspended  by  a  cord 
across  it. 

Ingenue,  greatly  relieved,  ventured  to  look  at  her  deliverer. 

He  was  a  young  man  with  handsome  features,  and  a  noble  air 
and  figure.  His  dress  exhaled  a  perfume  of  aristocracy,  which 
his  appearance  confirmed.  But,  more  than  all,  the  distinction  of 
his  manners,  revealed  the  man  of  quality.  He  received  Ingenue's 
thanks  with  courtesy,  and  a  look  of  unmistakable  admiration. 

"  Shall  I  not  go  into  the  house  with  you,  in  order  to  be  certain 
that  you  are  quite  safe?"  said  he.  in  a  tone  of  easy  familiarity 
indicating  the  man  accustomed  to  find  his  word  law. 

"  Sir,"  replied  Ingenue,  "  my  father  is  absent,  and  I  cannot 
venture  to  invite  you  in." 

"  How  are  you  going  to  get  in  yourself?" 


THE   F1BST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  181 

1 1  have  the  key  of  the  alley  door,  sir." 

"  Ah,  that  is  lucky.  Do  you  know,  child,  that  you  are  very 
handsome  ?" 

Ingenue  beared  a  profound  sigh  and  without  noticing  the  last 
remark  of  the  stranger,  she  exclaimed : 

"  What  can  have  become  of  my  father  ?•' 

"  Oh,  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me,  I  see !" 

"  No,  sir— I  want  you  to  save  my  father,  as  you  have  saved 
me." 

M  Really !    Pray,  what  may  be  your  father's  name  7" 

"  My  father,  sir,  is  an  author ;  his  name  is  Retif  de  la  Bretonne." 

«  Oh,  oh !  the  author  of  The  Adventure*  of  the  Pretty  Foot 
of  Fanchetle,  and  The  Perverted  Country  Girl !  Oh,  oh ! 
So  you  are  his  daughter  ?  And  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Ingenue." 

"  Ingenue !  A  charming  name,  and  worthy  of  your  charming 
and  ingenuous  look.'' 

The  unknown  drew  back  a  step,  and  made  a  profound  bow  to 
Ingenue,  who,  mistaking  this  homage  for  a  token  of  respect^ 
asked  timidly : 

"  May  I  not  know  your  name,  sir — to  whom  am  I  so  deeply 
obliged  ?» 

"  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  my  name  is  of  no  importance — I  hope  to 
be  allowed  to  have  the  honor  of  feeing  you  again." 

Ingenue  curtsied,  and  looking  round,  she  started  and  exclaimed : 

"  Take  care,  sir !  Be  on  your  guard  !  Our  street  is  a  very 
unfrequented  one.  See — the  man  who  shewed  us  the  way,  is 
watching  you." 

'•  Oh,  never  fear,  Mademoiselle :  I  know  that  man— he  is  wait- 
ing for  me." 

Ing6nue  now  proceeded  to  put  the  key  into  the  lock,  when  the 
stranger  again  addressed  her  : 

"  An  idea  has  just  struck  me,  Mademoiselle.'' 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it  is  that  you  seem  so  impatient  to  quit  me  that  I  have 


182  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

taken  it  into  my  head  that  there  must  be  somebody  waiting 
for  you  within." 

"  Somebody  waiting  ?" 

"  What  would  there  be  so  extraordinary  in  a  pretty  girl  like 
jou  having  a  lover  ?" 

Ingenue,  blushing  deeply  and  in  great  alarm,  drew  back.  She 
had  before  unlocked  the  floor ;  and  now,  pushing  against  it  she 
was  in  an  instant  within  the  alley,  and  the  door  closed  after  her. 

"  Cleverly  played  !"  said  the  young  man,  as  he  heard  the  door 
double  locked  from  within ;  "  cleverly  played,  by  Jove  !" 

Then  he  beckoned  to  the  man  who  was  waiting,  a  few  paces 
off. 

"  Come  here,  Anger,"  said  he ;  "  you  have  seen  this  pretty 
girl,  have  you  not !  Well — you  heard  the  name  of  her  father  ; 
you  know  where  she  lives.  Watch  her — follow  her — do  what 
you  please — only  remember,  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  and  I 
must  have  her." 

"  I  shall  attend  to  your  Highness'  wishes ;  but  let  me  remind 
your  Royal  Highness,  that  the  streets  of  Paris  in  this  part  of  the 
town  are  not  safe ;  that  they  are  still  firing,  and  that,  as  you 
remarked  to  the  young  lady,  cartridges  do  not  discriminate." 

"  Well — I'll  take  care.  Remember  my  injunctions ;  1  have  no 
doubt  she  expects  to  see  her  lover.  Watch  diligently." 

"  Never  fear — I  will  watch  and  report  to  your  Royal  Highness 
to-morrow." 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  183 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

C  II  H  ISTI  AM. 

INGENUE,  if  she  feared  one  young  man's  admiration,  did  not 
dread  that  of  another,  whom  she  expected  to  find  in  the  house 
She  had  been  looking  for  him  all  the  way  from  M.  Re  veil  Ion's , 
and  that  was  the  cause  of  the  little  attention  she  paid  to  the  ele- 
gant moral  discourse  of  her  father. 

That  is  why  she  looked  around,  while  thanking  her  deliverer, 
and  that  is  also  why,  though  really  very  grateful,  she  thanked 
him  so  coldly,  and  did  not  invite  him  to  enter. 

Young  girls  are  like  limpid  waters — their  purity  depends  on 
the  serenity  of  the  heavens  reflected  in  them.  They  are  but  the 
creatures  of  circumstances,  virtuous  or  the  contrary,  according 
to  their  surroundings. 

The  young  protector,  whom  the  man  had  called  "  your  High- 
ness,"  had  guessed  rightly.  Ingenue  was  expecting  her  lover. 

Entering  the  house,  she  rushed  rapidly  up  two  Sights  of  stairs ; 
and  there,  seated  on  the  step  of  the  door  of  their  apartment, 
his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  she  found  another  young  man. 

Recognizing  her  step,  he  rose,  exclaiming : 

"  It  is  you  at  last.  Mademoiselle  Ingenue  !" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Christian." 

"  I  have  been  waiting,  very  impatiently  for  you.  Is  your  father 
with  you  ?  Is  be,  as  usual,  getting  a  light  from  the  corner  gro- 
cery?" 

"My  father  did  not  come  home  with  me;  God  knows  if  he 
will  ever  come  home  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

••  Do  you  not  know  that  they  are  fighting  in  the  streets  ?" 

"Where.    Good  heavens!  where?" 

u  At  the  Pout  Neuf — at  the  place  Dauphine  —  everywhere! 
They  are  tiring  guns  and  shooting  everybody.  I  was  very  nearly 
killed,  and  my  father  is  probably  dead." 


184  INGENUE  ;   OB, 

"  Do  not  cry,  dear  Mademoiselle  Ingenne ;  there  is  still  hope." 

"  Oh  no !  he  would  have  returned  ere  this,  if  he  had  been 
alive." 

"How  did  you  get  back?" 

"  Oh,  a  young  man  came  to  my  assistance,  dragged  me  out  of 
the  crowd,  and  brought  me  here.  Poor  dear  papa !" 

"  Shall  I  go  in  search  of  him  ?" 

"  Oh  !  if  you  would !" 

"  And  yet,  I  wanted  so  much  to  speak  to  you,  Mile.  Ingenue  ! 
i  knew  where  you  were  to  dine ;  I  was  among  the  workmen  at 
Monsieur  Reveillon's  door,  when  you  came  out  with  your  father ; 
and  I  ran  all  the  way  here  in  order  to  be  able  to  see  you  for  a 
moment." 

"  But,  Monsieur  Christian " 

"  How  long  you  were  in  coming !  In  what  an  agony  of  expec- 
tation I  was  ?  How  often  have  I  opened  and  shut  the  door  of 
the  little  room  I  have  taken  in  the  house  in  order  to  obtain,  like 
the  other  lodgers,  a  key  of  the  alley  !  At  last  I  came  here  and 
listened  to  every  sound.  Ah!  Mademoiselle  Ingenue !  It  is  now 
six  weeks  since  first  I  saw  you ;  three  days  since  I  first  spoke 
with  you.  I  can  wait  no  longer.  I  must  know  my  fate  •,  I  must 
know  what  you  think  of  me." 

"  I  think,  Monsieur  Christian,  that  you  are  very  good  to  take 
so  much  interest  in  me." 

"  Is  that  all  ?» 

"  No ;  I  think  also  that  it  is  very  strange  of  you  to  take  a 
room  you  do  not  live  in,  to  wear .  a  dress  which  is  not  that  of 
your  station ;  and  still  stranger,  that  you  should  be  in  such  a 
hurry  to  know  what  time  alone  can  answer." 

"  Time,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

«  Yes— time !  You  may  perhaps  be  able  to  see  clearly  into  the 
state  of  your  feelings  ;  I  cannot  as  yet  into  mine." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Christian,  "  I  am  afraid,  if  the  neighbors 
were  to  see  us  together,  here  on  the  stairs,  they  might  think  ill 
of  you." 
'  "  Well,  then,  let  us  separate.    Good-byej  Monsieur  Christian !" 


THE   FIBST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  185 

"  What !  Will  you  not  allow  me  to  enter  your  apartment  ? — 
to  converse  with  you  quietly  for  ten  minutes — to  ask  you  if  you 
IOTC  me  ?" 

"  Love  you,  Monsieur  Christian  !  What,  already  !" 

"  Oh !  I  thought  you  more  tender-hearted.  Your  eyes  belie 
your  lips." 

"  I  hear  some  one  coming  from  above.     Go— pray,  go !" 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  old  woman  who  lets  me  my  room ;  an  inquisi- 
tive old  crone !  If  she  should  see  us " 

M  Go — for  heaven's  sake,  go !"  exclaimed  Ingenue,  in  agony. 

"  Ah !  there  is  some  body  coming  up  —  I  hear  footsteps 
coming  from  the  first  floor.  Which  way  can  I  go  ?" 

••  Oh,   heavens !  they  will  think  ill  of  me !  What  shall  I  do  !" 

"  Quick,  quick  !  Open  the  door  of  your  apartment— there  is 
just  time." 

"Ingenue  obeyed  in  despair  and  anxiety.  Christian  rushed 
into  the  apartment  after  her,  and  bolted  the  door. 

At  this  juncture,  the  voice  of  Retif  was  heard  on  the  stairs. 

"Ingenue,  Ingenue  !  are  you  here?"  said  he. 

11  My  father,  my  dear  father !  replied  the  young  girl,  trembling 
with  joy  and  fear. 

-  Open  the  door  !"  shouted  RetifL 

"  What  Khali  I  do  7"  murmured  Ingenue. 

"Open  the  door  directly,"  said  Christian,  withdrawing  the 
bolt  himself. 

Ketif  clasped  his  daughter  in  his  arms,  and  wept  with  joy. 

"  You  are  safe,  my  child !  We  are  both  safe !"  '    ^ 

"  Thank  God  !  How  did  you  escape,  my  dear,  father  ?" 

"  Trodden  under  foot,  I  escaped  the  fire  of  the  soldiers.  I 
struggled  out,  by  dint  of  unheard-of  efforts,  and  rushed  here, 
searching  for  yon,  calling  you,  dreading  to  find  you  dead,  or  not 
to  find  you  at  all.  Oh  heavens !  What  I  have  suffered !  and 
when  I  got  here,  to  find  all  dark — no  light  in  our  windows !  I 
don't  know  how  I  got  up  the  stairs.  But,  thank  God !  You  are 
here,  you  are  safe  ?  How  did  you  make  your  escape  ?" 

"  A  generous  man  came  to  my  succor." 
24 


186  INGINUE  ;  OB, 

"  And  you  have  no-  light  ?  For  heaven's  sake,  light  the  lamp  ! 
this  darkness  appals  me." 

"  Dear  father,"  said  Ingenue,  throwing  herself  once  more  into 
her  father's  arms,  in  order  to  give  Christian  time  to  escape  before 
lighting  the  lamp ;  but  to  her  amazement,  Christian  advanced, 
and  Retif  perceived,  over  the  shoulder  of  his  daughter,  as  he  held 
her  to  his  bosom,  a  stranger  bowing  to  him  profoundly. 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  there  ?"  shouted  Retif  in  alarm.  Christian 
repeated  his  salutation. 

"  Ah — hum !  Oh.  I  understand — this  is  the  gentleman.  Sir. 
I  have  the  honor" — 

"  Sir,"  said  Christian,  '*'  you  are  no  doubt  surprised  at  seeing 
me  here  alone  with  your  daughter." 

"  And  in  the  dark,  too !"  ejaculated  Retif;  "  unless,  as  I  ima- 
gine," continued  he,  remembering  the  father  in  his  novel  of  the 
Corrupted  Country  Girl,  and  assuming  a  befitting  majesty  of 
demeanor,  "  you  are  the  protector  of  Ingenue :  in  which  case 
allow  me  to  tender  my  heartfelt  thanks." 

The    young    man     was    not    disconcerted.    Ingenue  with  a 
trembling  hand  was  endeavoring  to  light  the  lamp, 
i  "  I  came,"  said  Christian,  boldly,  "  about  five  minutes  before 
you,   sir,  with   the  intention  of   declaring  my  love  to  your 
daughter." 

"  The  devil !"  exclaimed  Retif;  "  do  you,  then,  know  my 
daughter  ?" 

•'-I  have  had  that  honor,  for  some,  time." 

"  Without  my  knowledge,  too  !" 

"  Without  even  your  daughter's  knowledge.  This  is  only  the 
third  time  I  have  been  lucky  enough  to  speak  to  her,  by  chance." 

«  Really !» 

"  I  live  in  this  house." 

"Indeed!" 

"  I  am  an  engraver  on  silver,  by  trade,  and  earn  an  honorable 
living." 

Retif  looked  with  his  sharp  grey  eye  at  the  hands  of  his 
guest,  who  perceiving  his  penetrating  glance,  began  to  rub  them 


DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  1ST 

together,  in  order  to  bring  some  color  into  thenv— for  it  must  be 
confessed  that,  for  an  engraver  on  metal,  they  were  somewhat 
white. 

"  How  much  do  you  earn  a  day  7* 

"  From  five  to  six  francs,  sir." 

tt  Very  good  wages,  very.  So,  you  came  to  declare  your  love 
to  my  daugher  ?" 

"  I  did,  sir.  I  was  passing  your  door  just  as  she  was  opening 
it— and  I  entreated  her  to  allow  me  to  enter." 

"And  she  allowed  you?" 

"She  did  sir;  but  we  were  speaking  of  you — of  you,  sin 
about  whom  she  was  so  anxious." 

"  Oh  !  You  were  speaking  of  me,  about  whom  she  was  so 
anxious !"  and  Retif,  as  he  spoke,  looked  at  Ingenue,  who  stood 
with  downcast  eyes,  blushing  like  a  rose. 

"  Does  she  love  him  ?  that  is  the  question— for  how  is  it  pos- 
sible such  a  creature  as  that  should  not  be  loved?"  Retif 
extended  his  hand  to  his  visitor. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  have  told  me  your  feelings ;  tell  me  now 
your  intentions." 

- 1  wish  to  obtain  the  hand  of  Mad'lle.  Ingenue  from  you, 
provided  she  can  love  me." 

"  What  is  your  name?" 

"Christian" ;  „,  ''< 

"  Christian  !  that  is  not  a  name.    What  else  -T" 

"  Nothing  else — I  am  a  foreigner  ;  at  least  my  mother  was  a 
Pole." 

"  And  you  are  a  workman  !" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  An  engraver  on  metal  ?" 

"  As  I  had  the  honor  of  telling  you  just  now,"  replied  Chris- 
tian, alarmed  at  RetiPs  persistence  in  questioning  him. 

"  Stay  here,  Ingenue,"  said  Retif,  «  whilst  I  take  Monsieur 
Christian  into  my  room,  and  explain  to  him  the  position  of  the 
family  of  which  he  desires  to  become  a  member." 

Ing6nue  seated  herself  at  the  table  near  the  lamp,  whilst 
Q 


188  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

Retif  and  Christian  went  together  into  what,  was  called  Retifs 
study. 

It  was  a  poor-looking  room.  The  walls,  however,  were 
closely  hung  with  portraits  and  engravings. 

"-  This,"  said  Retif,  "  is  my  study.  Here  on  one  side  are  the 
portraits  of  my  father,  my  mother,  my  grandmother,  and  so  on. 
These  are  the  offspring  not  of  my  body,  but  of  my  brain,"  and 
he  pointed  to  the  engravings  representing  various  scenes  from 
his  novels.  "  My  father  and  mother  were,  and  are  still,  honest 
agriculturists  ;  though  I,  as  you  know,  pretend  to  be  descended 
from  the  Emperor  Pertinax." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  said  Christian. 

"  Then  you  have  not  read  my  works ;  for  there  I  prove  by  a 
genealogical  tree,  that  my  family  is  lineally  descended  from  the 
Emperor  Pertinax,  which  in  Latin  signifies  Retif. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  reiterated  Christian. 

"  And  of  course  you  do  not  care  about  it ;  it  can  be  of  very 
little  consequence  to  a  workman,  that  his  wife  should  be  de- 
scended from  an  Emperor  ?" 

Christian  blushed  under  the  penetrating  glance  of  Retif. 

"  But  what  is  of  more  importance  to  you,  is  that  you  should 
know,  that  since  I  wrote  all  this,  my  opinions  have  changed.  I 
have  uprooted  my  genealogical  tree,  and  am  prouder  of  being 
descended  from  a  peasant  than  from  an  Emperor.  The  tillers 
of  the  land,  sir,  appear  to  me  nobler  than  its  rulers  ;  and  I 
would  not  give  my  daughter  to  an  Empeor,  sir,  nor  to  a  King, 
nor  even  to  a  man  of  noble  birth." 

So  saying.  Retif  again  examined  Christian's  very  white  hands. 

"  I  think,  sir.  though  I  honor  your  principles,  that  you  have 
gone  rather  too  far." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

"That  you  should,  by  philosophical  principles,  discard  the  • 
hereditary  nobility  of  blood,  I  can  understand ;  but  that,  when 
it  is  united  to  nobility  of  mind  and  heart,  you  should  make  no 
exceptions,  astonishes  me."  ^ 

"Well-whatthen?" 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  189 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"  Why,  then,  do  you,  a  mere  workman,  take  the  part  of  the 
nobility  against  me  ?" 

"Just  for  the  same  reason  that  you,  a  descendant  of  the 
Emperor  Pertinax,  think  it  worth  while  to  attach  them  to  me,  a 
mere  workman." 

'<  Yon  are  a  man  of  talent,"  said  Retif. 

"  All  I  ask,  sir,  is  to  have  talent  sufficient-to  be  able  to  appre- 
ciate you,"  replied  Christian. 

Retif  smiled.  He  was  beginning  to  like  his  future  son-in-law  ! 
But  his  nature  regained  the  ascendancy— for  Retif  was  what  his 
name  means  in  French — what  it  means  hi  Latin— Pertinax— that 
is,  obstinate  as  a  mole. 

"  Come  sir,"  said  he,  "  you  had  better  confess  at  once  that 
you  only  came  here  to  obtain,  young-man-like.  the  love,  and  not 
the  hand,  of  my  daughter  ?" 

"  Sir,"  replied  Christian,  "  I  have  the  honor  of  repeating  my 
proposal  of  marriage  to  you." 

"  Are  you,  then,  sure  of  her  love  ?" 

'Must  I  be  candid?" 

"  It  is  your  only  chance." 

"  Well  then,  sir,  I  flatter  myself  I  am  not  indifferent  to  her." 

"  Has  she  told  you  so  V 

u  No — but  when  I  have  seen  her,  I  thought  her  manner— the 
expression  of  her  eyes" 

-  Oh,  oh !  So  you  have  been  making  use  of  your  seductive 
arts  to  inveigle  the  poor  girl !" 

"Sir!" 

"  Ah  !  I  sec  that  you  have  taken  a  lodging  here,  merely  as  a 
pretext  for  getting  at  her.  I  see  that  you  chose  this  evening  to 
come  here,  because  you  thought  me  absent  or  dead,  or" 

"  Tou  do  me  great  injustice,  sir !"  exclaimed  Christian,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  Unfortunately,  you  see,  sir,  I  am  a  man  of  penetration,  of 
experience.  I  have  studied  human  nature  j  you  cannot  deceive 


190  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

me — I,  who  am  now  writing  a  work  of  extraordinary  observa- 
tion, entitled :  The  Human  Heart  Unveiled." 

"  You  have  not  read  mine  aright,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  Oh,  one  heart  is  as  easy  to  read  as  another  ;  human  nature 
is  all  alike,  sir — all  alike." 

"  I  protest" 

"  Pray  don't — it  would  be  useless.  You  have  heard  all  I  have 
said  ?" 

"  Yes— now  listen  to  me  5  let  me  speak  in  my  turn." 

"To what  purpose?" 

"  It  is  not  worthy  of  a  logician  to  hear  but  one  side  of  a  ques- 
tion, nor  worthy  of  a  writer  who  paints  feelings  so  well,  not  to 
give  ear  to  them." 

''  Go  on  then.'' 

"  Sir,— let  us  suppose  your  daughter  has  some  attachment  to 
me — will  you  make  her  unhappy  ?  I  speak  only  of  her,  though 
perhaps  I  might  have  some  claims  on  your  interest." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  a  very  important  personage — that 
%  is  precisely  what  I  suspect,  and  what  I  object  to." 

"  Let  us  be  serious,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  My  dear  sir.  I  am  perfectly  serious.  I  have  given  you  my 
ultimatum— let  us  say  no  more." 

"  On  the  contrary,  let  me  hear  it  again." 

"  Well,  then,  sir — I  will  give  my  daughter  in  marriage  but  to 
a  man  from  one  of  two  classes  of  persons — a  workman,  or  a 
tradesman.' 

"Well — but  since  I  am  a  workman" ..      '   *,  • 

"  A  workman,  sir !"  said  Retif,  taking  an  imposing  attitude, 
and  buttoning  up  his  old  coat ;  "  a  workman  !  Look  at  your 
hands — are  they  the  hands  of  a  workman  ?"  So  saying,  Retif 
bowed,  and  moved  towards  the  door,  in  so  pointed  a  manner 
that  his  visitor  was  obliged  to  obey  the  invitation,  and  re-enter 
the  sitting-room. 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  191 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IN    WHICH    RETIF'S    SUSPICIONS    ARE    CONFIRMED. 

Thus  dismissed  by  the  father,  Christian  passed,  with  a  mournful 
air  and  slow  step,  before  the  table  upon  which  Ingenue,  trembling 
and  afflicted,  was  leaning. 

"  Farewell,  Ingenue — farewell !  Since  your  father  is  the  most 
cruel,  the  most  inexorable  of  men,  I  can  only  say  farewell !" 

Ingenue  rose  as  though  touched  by  an  electric  shock,  and  gazed 
at  her  father  with  a  look,  if  not  of  defiance,  at  least  of  remon- 
strance. 

Retif  shrugged  his  shoulders;  then,  taking  Christian  by  the 
hand,  he  led  him  out  of  the  room,  on  to  the  landing  place,  bowed 
politely,  then  shut  the  door,  locked  and  bolted  it,  and  re-entered 
the  sitting  room. 

There  he  found  Ingtnue  in  the  attitude  he  had  left  her,  erect, 
immoveable.  She  said  not  a  word. 

Retif  felt  very  much  embarrassed ;  it  cost  him  a  great  deal  to 
afflict  Ingenue,  but  it  would  hare  cost  him  still  more  to  sacrifice 
his  prejudices. 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,"  said  he,  at  length. 

"  No,"  replied  Ingenue,  "  I  have  no  right  to  be  angry." 

K  No  right  ?" 

"  No !  are  you  not  my  father  T> 

Ingenue  pronounced  the  word  father  with  bitterness. 

Retif  was  astounded.  He  had  never  heard  such  an  intonation 
in  Ingenue's  voice.  He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into 
the  street.  Christian  was  leaving  the  house,  with  a  slow  and 
faltering  step. 

For  an  instant  Retif  suspected  that  he  had  been  mistaken  ;  but 
then  he  remembered  the  elegant  language  and  the  white  hands 
of  the  youth,  and  he  felt  sure  he  was  no  workman.  He  was  no 


192  INGENUE  J    OR, 

engraver,  unless  he  were  a  Cellini  or  an  Ascanio.  No — he  was 
a  gentleman,  beyond  all  doubt.  A  gentleman  in  love,  desperately 
in  love,  with  Ingenue,  and  ready  for  any  sacrifice  to  obtain  her, 
or  to  die  if  he  did  not.  What  eternal  remorse  would  Retif  feel. ' 
if  such  were  to  be  the  case !  What  reproaches  would  he  not 
deserve  from  this  youth's  family !  What  would  Monsieur  Mer- 
cier  say  to  him,  the  tender-hearted,  philanthropic  Mercier,  the 
sentimental  desciple  of  Jean  Jacques !  What,  he !  a  novelist — 
he,  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,  the  advocate  of  love — should  he  be  thus 
hard-hearted  ?  Never ! 

Retif  therefore,  on  reflection,  seized  his  hat,  and  resolved  on 
finding  out  the  true  position  of  his  daughter's  suitor.  Ingenuej 
as  though  she  divined  his  intentions,  smiled  on  him  as  he  went 
out ;  and  thus  encouraged,  Retif  rushed  into  the  street. 

He  determined  to  follow  the  young  man  unseen ;  and  the  dark- 
ness of  the  ill-lighted  streets  favored  his  intention ;  besides  which, 
Christian  walked  on,  neither  looking  on  one  side  nor  the  other, 
nor  even  turning  to  gaze  once  more  on  the  house  which  con- 
tained his  very  soul. 

Retif  followed  him  to  the  bridge  of  St.  Michael.  There  Chris- 
tian paused ;  and  Retif,  thinking  he  was  going  to  jump  into  the 
river,  was  advancing  to  seize  him,  when  a  violent  explosion  from 
the  Place  Dauphine  startled  them  both.  Christian,  who  had 
begun  to  ascend  the  parapet,  jumped  down  at  this  sound,  and 
ran  precipitately  towards  the  spot  whence  the  noise  proceeded. 

"  He  is  going  to  get  shot !"  thought  Retif;  "  he  likes  that  better 
than' drowning  !"  and  off  he  started  hi  pursuit  of  him  towards 
the  Place  Dauphine,  where  swords  were  gleaming  and  guns  were 
firing. 

No  sooner  had  the  crowd  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the  first 
firing  of  the  troops,  than,  enraged  and  irritated  at  the  sight  of 
their  killed  and  wounded,  they  rushed  upon  the  guet,  and  with 
stones,  with  staves,  with  iron  bars,  with  anything  and  everything 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on,  had  commenced  a  furious  assault. 

It  was  a  struggle  hand-to-hand,  and  many  of  the  soldiers  got 
the  worst  of  it ;  for  if  in  1793  the  mob  became  assassins,  it 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  193 

must  be  said,  to  the  credit  of  the  pe*ple,  that  in  1789  they  were 
brave  and  honorable  combatants— though  often  with  very  great 
disadvantages,  and  unarmed. 

Encouraged  by  their  success,  the  people,  taking  possession  of 
the  pistols  and  swords  of  the  fallen  soldiers,  became  so  powerful 
that  they  routed  and  dispersed  the  troops,  and  now  proceeded  to 
attack  the  guard-house,  where  was  another  portion  of  the  guct, 
who,  not  having  received  orders  to  turn  out,  had  not  dared  to 
come  to  the  assistance  of  Dubois.  and  to  take  the  rioters  between 
two  fires,  as  they  might  thus  have  done. 

The  soldiers  in  the  guard-house,  taken  by  surprise,  threw 
down  their  arms  and  fled.  The  people,  thus  victorious,  having  no 
longer  any  adversaries  to  contend  with,  and  being  excited  beyond 
control,  began  to  wreak  their  fury  upon  the  surrounding  build- 
ings—battering down  all  they  could. 

It  was  in  this  moment  of  intoxicating  triumph  that  Retif  and 
Christian  arrived  on  the  scene  of  action. 

But  the  triumph  of  the  people  was  of  short  duration.  The 
troops  sent  for  by  Dubois,  now  met  the  multitude,  charged  on 
them,  and  poured  such  a  volley  into  the  midst  of  them,  that  their 
ranks  were  decimated. 

It  was  the  noise  of  this  volley  which  Christian  and  Retif  had 
heard. 

When  they  turned  towards  the  quay,  they  beheld  opposite 
to  them,  the  guard-house  in  flames.  Now,  when  the  people 
had  set  fire  to  the  place,  they  had  forgotten  the  guns  of  the  sol- 
diers within.  These  had  remained,  being  all  loaded ;  and  when 
the  roof  fell  in,  the  guns  went  off,  and  several  persons  were 
killed.  Then  the  fire  burned  brightly,  illumining  the  quays  as 
far  as  the  Louvre,  and  forming  a  magnificent  but  terrible  specta- 
cle. 

Amongst  the  victims  of  the  exploding  guns,  was  Christian — a 
ball  hit  him  on  the  thigh,  and  he  fell. 

Retif  would  scarcely  have  perceived  it,  had  not  the  crowd, 
incensed  at  the  slaughter,  been  so  eager  in  assisting  and  picking 
25 


194  ING&ftJE;   OR, 

up  the  wounded.  They  were  incited  to  this  by  a  man  of  Hercu- 
lean stature,  who  directed  and  encouraged  their  efforts. 

When  Christian  fell,  this  man  rushed  towards  him  from  one 
side,  whilst  Retif  rushed  towards  him  from  another. 

Retif  and  this  man  raised  him  in  their  arms,  whilst  all  eagerly 
interrogated  him. 

Fainting  from  pain,  Christian  was  not  aware  of  the  presence  of 
Retif  de  la  Bretonne.  In  reply  to  the  inquires  of  those  about 
him,  said : 

"  My  name  is  Christian— I  am  page  to  the  Count  d'Artois. 
Take  me  to  the  Eeuries — there  is  a  great  surgeon  there." 

At  these  words,  Retif  de  la  Bretoune  withdrew  his  support 
from  the  young  man  ;  and  as  he  saw  he  was  well  cared  for,  and 
that  notwithstanding  his  wound,  he  was  alive  ;  and  as  the  man, 
Who  held  him  like  an  infant  in  his  arms,  promised  not  to  leavo 
him  till  he  had  placed  him  under  the  care  of  a  surgeon,  Retii 
thought  he  had  better  go  home. 

On  his  way  he  meditated  whether  he  should  tell  Ingenue  of 
the  accident  that  had  happened  to  Christian;  but  he  at  last 
decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  leave  time  to  cure  Ingenue's 
passion,  and  reckoned  that  absence  and  silence  would  do  much 
towards  effecting  it — which  in  fact  it  does,  when  the  passion  is 
self-love,  instead  of  love. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  relate  the  termination  of  the  history  of  this 
emeute. 

Began  by  a  set  of  idlers,  a  mere  popular  effervescence,  it  took 
the  character  of  a  revolt,  through  the  injudicious  violence  of  the 
authorities,  who  had  presumptuously  calculated  on  their  superiori- 
ty, and  had  not  appeared  in  sufficient  numbers  to  stem  the 
torrent. 

Infuriated  by  the  bloodshed  on  both  sides,  both  the  people  and 
the  soldiers  had  fought  till  midnight.  Then  the  people,  maddened 
and  excited  by  those  who  had  lost  friends  and  relatives  in  the 
affray,  rushed  to  the  residence  of  the  Commandant  Dubois,  and 
commenced  a  regular  siege.  Here  they  were  received  by  a  dis- 


THE   FIRST  DAY3   OF   BLOOD.  195 

charge  of  musketry  from  every  window — and  in  a  few  moments 
they  were  charged  by  two  regiments. 

Thus,  taken  .between  two  fires,  the  people  were  thrown  from 
one  bayonet  to  another,  and  the  most  frightful  carnage  took 
place,  reddening  the  streets  with  the  blood  of  the  citizens. 

The  soldiers  of  course  conquered,  and  the  rebellion  was  quelled 
—but  the  Revolution  had  begun. 


CHAPTER    XXVIT. 

. 

THE      TEMPTER. 

THE  day  after  these  events,  so  fatal  to  the  young  page  and  to 
the  budding  love  of  Ingenue,  the  man  who  had  watched  in  the 
street,  by  the  order  of  his  master,  entered  the  house  in  broad 
day-light 

This  individual  was  a  sort  of  lacquey,  out  of  livery.  He  was 
about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  with  a  common  and  impudent 
expression  of  countenance,  denoting  a  servile  and  cunning  nature, 
a  degenerate  descendant  of  the  followers  of  the  great  men  of  the 
last  century. 

Ingenue,  anxious  about  Christian,  and  in  momentary  expecta- 
tion of  seeing  him,  wa  looking  out  of  the  window,  when  this 
man  appeared  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  Having  saluted 
Ingenue  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  he  crossed  over  and  entered  the 
alley. 

Ingenue  felt  some  astonishment  at  being  saluted  by  a  man 
whom  she  did  not  know ;  but  imagining  it  to  be  a  friend  of  her 
father's,  she  listened  for  the  knock  at  the  door. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait — there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Ingenue  hastened  to  open  it. 

u  Monsieur  Retif  de  la  Bretonne?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  It  is  here  that  he  lives,  sir." 


196  INGENUE  J   OR, 

"  I  am  aware  of  that ;  can  I  have  the  honor  of  seeing  him  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  he  cannot  see  you  just  now ;  he  is  writing,  and 
he  does  not  like  to  be  disturbed." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  disturb  him  ;  but  what  I  have  to  say  is 
of  the  greatest  importance." 

During  this  dialogue,  the  visitor  had  entered  the  sitting-room, 
and  placed  his  hat  on  the  table  ;  and  having  spied  out  an  arm- 
chair, he  threw  himself  into  it  with  a  sign  of  satisfaction,  and 
drawing  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  wiped  his  fore- 
head with  an  air  which  seemed  to  say  : 

"  You  live  very  high  up,  my  dear  lady." 

Ingenue  looked  very  much  confounded  at  the  easy  assurance 
of  the  stranger.  The  latter  perceived  it,  and  said  : 

"Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Mademoiselle,  what  I  have  to  say 
I  can  just  as  well  say  to  you  as  your  father." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that,  sir,  for  I  really  do  not  like  to  disturb 
my  father." 

"  It  is  even  better,  far  better  that  I  should  speak  first  to  you ; 
for  we  can,  perhaps,  arrange  matters  so  as  to  prevent  his  having 
anything  to  do  with  the  affair." 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  speak  about  ?"  said  Ingenue,  timidly. 

"  About  you,  Mademoiselle." 

"  About  me !» 

"  About  you ;  where  could  I  find  a  fairer  subject  ?" 

Ingenue  blushed,  and  said,  distantly: 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,  to  whom  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  name  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter ;  you  cer- 
tainly never  heard  it  before.  However,  if  it  is  any  satisfaction 
to  you,  ray  name  is  Anger."  ' 

Ingenue  bowed,  but  M.  Anger  was  right ;  his  name  was  per- 
fectly unknown  to  her.  •* 

But  there  was  such  a  halo  of  purity,  so  much  unconscious 
innocence,  about  Ingenue,  that  M.  Anger  felt  puzzled  how  to 
begin.  He  remained  silent;  and  this  silence  after  having  an- 
nounced that  lie  had  something  to  say,  seemed  very  singular  to 
Ingenue. 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  197 

"  I  am  all  attention,  sir,"  said  she,  at  length. 

"  Well — what  I  have  to  say  is  very  difficult  to  put  clearly  and 
in  few  words— to  you,  at  least." 

Ingenue  blushed,  and  drew  back  from  the  speaker.  Again  he 
was  silent ;  then  suddenly  he  exclaimed  : 

"  I  had  rather  speak  to  your  father,  after  all,  than  to  you." 

Ingenue,  understanding  that  this  was  the  only  way  of  getting 
rid  of  her  strange  visitor,  said,  as  she  turned  to  leave  the  room  : 

"  Wait  for  me,  then,  sir— I  will  call  my  father." 

Retif  de  la  B  re  tonne  was  writing  his  work,  entitled  "  Paris  by 
Night  j"  that  is,  what  he  called  writing ;  for  he  was,  in  fact* 
standing  before  a  case  of  type,  and  setting  up  his  sentences  as 
they  occurred  to  him. 

This  mode  of  composition  had  two  advantages,  celerity  and 
economy.  Retif  appeared  highly  enchanted  with  his  present 
production.  He  was  very  industrious,  and,  like  all  writers,  dis- 
liked being  interrupted.  But  he  had  now  been  two  or  throe 
hours  alone ;  so  that,  though  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  he 
grumbled  a  little,  he  was  not  hi  fact  sorry  when  Ingenue  opened 
the  door. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  father,  for  interrupting  you ;  but  there  is  a 
gentleman  here  of  the  name  of  Anger."  • 

"  Anger  ?    Anger ?    I  don't  know  any  one  of  that  name." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  soon  be  better  acquainted,  my  dear  sir,"  said  a 
voice  behind  Ingenue.  Retif  turned  round. 

"  What  can  I  have  the  honor  of  doing  for  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you  alone. 
Retif  made  a  sign  to  his  daughter,  and  Ingenue  retired — shutting 
the  door  after  her. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  now  I  can 
speak  freely.  The  unconscious  innocVice  of  this  young  girl 
quite  paralyzed  me." 

"  Indeed !    What  can  you  have  to  say  to  me,  then  ?" 

"  I  must  begin  with  a  question." 

11  What  question  ?" 

"  Is  your  daughter  entirely  free  7" 


198  INGENUE  ;  OB, 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean,  sir,  what  I  say.    Is  your  daughter  entirely  free? 
Has  she  a  husband  ?" 
.  "  No,  sir." 

"  Nor  a  lover  ?" 

"  Sir  !"  said  Retif,  frowning  and  drawing  himself  up. 

"  I  am  aware,  sir,  that  at  first  the  question  may  appear  rather 
impertinent ;  but  it  was  unavoidable." 

"  Unavoidable  ?" 

"  Sir,  do  you  wish  to  see  your  daughter  rich  and  happy  ?" 

"  It  is  the  wish  of  all  fathers,  I  imagine,  who  have  daughters 
of  the  age  of  mine." 

"  Well,  sir,  had  Mademoiselle  Ing6nue  been  either  engaged  or 
married,  she  would  have  missed  the  greatest  chance  of  both." 

Retif  drew  himself  up,  and  looked  at  the  stranger  from  head 
to  foot. 

"Oh  !  oh  !''  murmured  Retif,  "  more  proposals  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  proposals.     What  are  your  intentions  with  regard 
to  your  daughter  ?" 

"  I  intend,  sir,  to  make  an  honest  woman  of  her." 

"  That  means,  to  marry  her  to  some  honest  tradesman,  or  to 
some  poor*  devil  of  a  journalist  ?" 

"Well,  what  if  I  do?" 

"  You  must  already,  sir,  have  had  many  proposals  of  the  kind  ?" 

"No  later  than  yesterday,  sir,  I  received  a  proposal  of  mar- 
riage for  Ingenue." 

"  Which  I  hope  you  refused  ?" 

"  What  is  it  to  you.  whether  I  did  or  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  a  better  one  to  make  to  you." 

"  Better !    How  do   you  know  what  sort  of  a  proposal  I 
received  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  it  could  not  be  as  good  as  mine." 

'  Ah  !  ah !"   said   Retif  to   himself  j    "  Ingenue  is  in  great 
request,  it  appears  !" 

"  Was  not  the  proposal  from  a  young  man  ?" 

'  Certainly." 


THE   FIBST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  199 

"  Without  a  sou  ?" 

"  I  never  inquired." 

"  Without  a  profession  ?" 

•'  On  the  contrary,  he  said  he  was  an  engraver  on  metal ;  but 
in  reality,  as  I  have  since  discovered,  he  is  a  gentleman." 

"A -gentleman— pooh  !  I  can  offer  you  much  better  than  a 
gentleman." 

« Indeed." 

"  Yes,  air — I  offer  you  a  prince." 

"  As  a  husband  for  my  daughter  ?" 

••Asa  husband  for  your  daughter." 

"Yonarejoking,sir!" 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  I  am  in  earnest." 

Retif  began  to  feel  some  misgivings ;  and  the  blood  mounted 
to  his  forehead  as  he  again  repeated — 

"  A  prince,  the  husband  of  my  daughter !" 

"  As  I  had  the  honor  of  telling  you  just  now." 

"  What !  a  prince  marry  a  poor  girl  like  Ingenue  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mean  that  he  will  marry  her  in  state,  at  Notre 
Dame,"  said  Anger,  encouraged  by  Retif 's  calm  demeanor. 

"  Where,  then,  would  he  marry  her  ?"  enquired  Retif. 

•'Come!"  said  Anger,  "we  have  talked  in  enigmas  long 
enough ;  let  us  come  to  the  point ;"  and  he  laid  his  large,  coarse 
hand  familiarly  on  Retif  s  shoulder.  "  The  fact  is,"  said  he,  "  a 
prince  has  seen  your  daughter,  and  fallen  in  love  wkh  her." 

•  •  What  prince  ?     Has  he  a  name  ?" 

"A  name!  Of  course  he  has,"  exclaimed  Anger,  beginning 
to  feel  uncomfortable  at  Retif 's  dose  questioning;  "a  great 
name,  and  a  great  fortune." 

'•  Sir,  I  do  not  understand  you.  You  offer  me  either  too 
much  or  too  little  ;  T  must  beg  you  to  be  more  explicit." 

"  Let  me  first  tell  how  the  prince  will  begin — by  giving  you 
money,  sir,  money,  as  much  as  you  please." 

Retif  closed  his  eyes,  with  a  sneer  of  contempt. 

"  You  appear  to  have  had  so  little  to  do  with  money,  my 
dear  Retif,  that  you  do  not  seem  even  to  comprehend  its  value." 
R 


200  INGENUE  ;  OR, 

"  Monsieur  Anger,  I  cannot  imagine  what  you  are  driving  at ; 
but  really  I  begin  to  think  I  must  be  dreaming — for  if  I  am 
wide  awake,  I  am  a  great  fool,  wasting  my  time  in  listening  to 
such  nonsense." 

"  Have  patience  a  little  longer,  and  allow  me  to  begin  by  a 
definition  of  money." 

"  Sir  !" 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  if  you  please." 

Retif  looked  very  much  as  if  he  wanted  to  throw  the  man  out 
of  the  window ;  but  he  was  alone,  and  physically  unable  to  con- 
tend with  a  man  of  Anger's  proportions.  So  he  allowed  him  to 
proceed.  Besides,  to.  say  the  truth,  Retif  was  not  sorry,  he  who 
was  one  of  the  progressionists,  to  hear  how  far  the  corruption 
and  insolence  of  the  princes  would  still  go,  now  that  they  were 
pretending  to  liberal  ideas  and  to  levelling  principles. 

Anger,  who  could  not  divine  what  was  going  on  in  the  mind 
of  Retif;  Anger,  who  from  his  experience  had  learned  to  despise 
men — proceeded  in  his  definition  : 

"  Money,  sir,  for  you,  means  an  elegant  apartment,  in  a  respect- 
al  ile  part  of  the  town  ;  it  means  rich  furniture,  as  you  have,  per- 
haps, never  seen  ;  velvet  sofas,  soft  easy-chairs,  carpets,  mirrors, 
chandeliers,  and  silk  curtains.  It  means  a  dining-room  well 
furnished  with  crystal,  plate,  and  china— it  means  a  cellar  full 
of  the  best  wines — it  means  servants  to  wait  on  you " 

"  Sir,  sir !"  interrupted  Retif,  getting  quite  bewildered. 

"  Let  me  go  on,  sir,  I  have  not  finished.  It  means,  sir, — this 
all-powerful  money ;  a  magnificent  library  of  good,  or  rather 
bad,  books — for  they  are  the  ones  your  novelists  and  journalists 
prefer, — all  well  bound  and  ranged  in  massive  book-cases,  where 
you  will  read  your  own  name  by  the  side  of  the  Encyclopedia,  of 
•Rousseau,  of  Voltaire.  It  means  a  never-failing  supply  of  fuel 
from  the  royal  forests ;  it  means  innumerable  wax-candles ;  it 
means  a  well-filled  wardrobe ;  it  means  lace  and  fine  linen,  and 
new  coats  at  will;  it  means  a  gold-beaded  cane,  and  luxuries 
which  would  make  you  look  ten  years  younger,  and  insure  you 
success  amongst  the  women." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OK   BLOOD.  201 

«  Amongst  the  women  ?"  ^  *"    *  V 

"  Yes,  yes— you  will  be  as  successful  and  admired  &a  in  your 
youth— in  the  days  when  you  had  three  mistresses  at  «uce.  Oh. 
I  know  your  history,  and  have  read  your  books— vilely  printed 
as  they  are !  I  have  read  your  episode  of  The  JBridf.  W ell- 
money,  M.  Retif,  means  all  this ;  it  means  house,  elegance,  con> 
fort,  luxury,  good  living,  and  fine  women.  It  meant)  more ;  it 
means  the  power  of  gratifying  all  your  wishes,  whatever  they 
may  be." 

"  Where  is  this  money  to  come  from  ?" 

"  From  the  Prince ;  all  these  things  I  have  enumerated  will  be 
given  to  you  by  your  daughter — from  the  dower  he  will  settle 
on  her,  at  her  marriage." 

"  Damnation !"  said  Retif,  dragging  his  old  velvet  cap  reso- 
lutely down  over  his  brows;  "do  you  mean  to  insult  me,  by 
proposing  this  infamous  bargain  ?" 

"  I  do  propose  a  bargain,  M.  Retif,  but  not  an  infamous  one. 
You  have  mistaken  the  adjective — excellent,  you  should  have 
said." 

"  Excellent,  when  it  is  dishonor  that  you  propose  ?" 

"Dishonor!  You  are  mad.  What!  Mile.  Ingenue,  the  ille- 
gitimate daughter  of  a  poor  author,  dishonored  by  the  love  of  a 
Prince !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.,  unless  you  really  believe 
in  your  descent  from  the  Emperor  Pertinax.  Pray,  was  Odette 
de  Champdidiers  dishonored?  was  Agnes  Sorel  dishonored? 
was  Diane  de  Poitiers  dishonored  ?  was  Marie  Fouchet  dis- 
honored? Was  Gabrielle  d'Estree  dishonored?  Was  Mile,  de 
la  Valliere  dishonored  ?  or  Mme.  de  Montespan,  or  Madame  de 
Maintenon  ?  Or  were  Madame  de  Parabere,  Madame  de  Phalaris, 
Madame  de  Sabian,  Madame  de  Mailly,  Madame  de  Vintcmille, 
or  Madame  de  Chateauroux,  or  Madame  de  Pompadour,  dishon- 
ored?— and  why  should  your  daughter — for  I  imagine  she  is 
capable  of  retaining  the  Prince's  love,  and  not  like  Mile,  de 

Fontanges" 

Your  Prince,  then,  means  the  King  ?" 


202  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"Not  quite." 

"  The  Count  de  Provence  ?" 

'  "  No  names,  for  Heaven's  sake,  M.  Retif !  My  Prince  for  you 
is  the  Prince  of  Money ;  and  I  think  when  such  a  Prince  knocks 
at  the  door,  the  wisest  thing  we  can  do  is  to  open  it  wide  and 
receive  him  graciously." 

"No,  no !"  exclaimed  Retif,  "I  prefer  my  poverty." 

"  Your  misery,  you  mean ;  a  misery  which  is  increasing  every 
day.  All  you  have  to  subsist  on  are  your  books ;  and  they  are 
often  not  worth  much,  and  bring  very  little.  The  coat  you  wear 
is  full  twenty  years  old — you  said  so  in  your  "  Man  of  Forty." 
Age  is  coming  on — what  will  become  of  you  then  ?  Ingenue,  to 
whom  I  am  authorized  to  offer  half  a  million,  has  not  more  than 
two  dresses; -and  had  it  not  been  for  M.  Reveillon,  she  would 
have  had  none  at  all." 

"  Sir,"  replied  Retif,  "  that  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  It  is  of  the  greatest  importance  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  that 
your  lovely  child  should  be  dressed  as  becomes  her  grace  and 
beauty.  How  she  would  become  her  state  !" 

"  I  don't  care — I  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  you." 

"  How  absurd !    For  what  reason  ?" 

"  First,  because  I  consider  the  proposition  an  insult,  and  if  I 
wasn't  so  poorly  off  for  type.  I  would  throw  this  handful  at  you. 
But  I  will  call  Ingenue,  and  you  shall  hear  what  she  will  say 
to  you." 

"  Don't  do  any  such  thing ;  though  I  lay  anything  that  if  I 
were  to  talk  to  her,  I  could  persuade  her." 

"  You  seduce  my  daughter!" 

"  Not  I ;  but  the  Prince  whose  advocate  I  am,  is  handsome 
and  accomplished." 

"  Oh,  then,  it  is  the  Count  de  Provence  ?" 

"  No  matter." 

"  What  do  you  think  my  friend  Mercier  would  say  ? — he  who 
thinks  me  the  most  virtuous  of  men." 

"  A  nice  sort  of  a  fellow,  to  talk  of  morality,  after  what  he  has 


THB   FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  203 

written !  After  asserting  that  Boileau  and  Racine  bare  degraded 
French  poetry,  he  comes  and  writes  a  villanous  tragedy  in  prose 
and  calls  it  Charles  II.  of  England,  in  a  certain  place. 
There's  a  suggtgtiye  title  !  You  have  a  nice  friend.  I  envy  you'." 

"  M.  Anger !" 

'•  You  are  right ;  it  is  silly  to  lose  time ;  let  us,  as  you  said  just 
now,  come  to  the  point :  only  allow  me  to  observe  that  I  have 
been  kind  enough  to  ask  you  for  what  I  could  have  taken  with- 
'out  your  permission." 

"How  so?" 

"  Why,  Sir,  the  Prince  whose  ambassador  I  am,  is  all  power- 
ful ;  he  could  easily  have  carried  off  your  daughter ;  and  where 
would  you  have  been  then  ?" 

Retif,  exasperated  at  the  insolence  of  the  words,  and  the  inso- 
lence of  tha  tone,  snatched  his  velvet  cap  from  his  head,  and 
throwing  it  with  rage  on  the  floor,  exclaimed : 

- 1  should  like  to  see  the  man  who  would  dare  to  do  this. 
These  are  your  princes,  your  despots,  your  tyrants  !" 

••  You  need'nt  say  any  more  in  that  style — all  that  you  could 
say  has  been  written  a  hundred  times  since  the  world  was  a 
a  world.  It  has  .been  repeated  a  hundred  times,  by  hundreds  of 
authors,  from  Juvenal  to  Jean-Jacques ;  from  Tacitus  to  Dide- 
rot. Take  care,  M.  Retif— take  care  what  you  are  saying  !" 

••  I  will  rouse  the  neighborhood — I  will  make  a  revolution  !" 

<;  Then  we  will  have  you  arrested." 

"  I'll  write  a  Pamphlet  against  the  Prince." 

"  Then  we  shall  have  to  send  you  to  the  Bastille." 

"  I  shall  get  out  of  the  Bastille  one  day  or  another — and 
then " 

•'Pshaw!  You  are  an  old  man;  the  Bastille  will  last  longer 
than  you." 

"  Who  knows,  sir  ?"  said  Retif  in  a  tone  which  made  Anger 
shudder. 

"So,  in  fact,  you  intend  to  refuse,"  said  he,  " an  honor  which 
was  solicited  by  the  courtiers  of  Louis  XV  T 
R» 


204  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  I  am  not  a  courtier." 

"  You  would  rather  allow  your  daughter  to  be  taken  from  you 
by  some  low  fellow,  than  to  give  her  to  a  Prince?" 

"The  wife  of  a  coal-heaver  is  more  estimable  than  the  mistress 
of  a  King,"  replied  Retif.  sententiously. 

<;  I  know  Rousseau  has  said  so,  and  said  it,  too,  in  a  book  dedi- 
cated to  Madame  de  Pompadour — by  which  he  shewed  his  sense 
and  his  tact — don't  you  think  so  1  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  will 
happen.  Your  daughter,  instead  of  marrying  the  Prince,  will 
become  the  mistress  of  some  blackguard." 

"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan  !" 

"  Bah  !  nonsense  !  humbug  !  Talk  to  your  daughter,  and 
think  of  what  I  offer,  before  another  seduces  her,  without  any 
advantage  whatever  accruing  to  yourself.  I  can  put  at  your  dis- 
posal the  power  of  a  Prince — his  riches.  His  personal  qualities. 
his  accomplishments,  his  manners,  are  such  as  to  win  her  without 
my  assistance  to  back'  him,  or  your  authority  to  prevent  it.  '  No 
disgrace,  no  embarrassments  ;  protection,  pensions,  orders,  favor, 
security  and  happiness.  If  you  should  like  to  travel " 

"  I  don't  like  any  of  your  offers." 

"The  d — 1  you  don't !  You  are  difficult  to  please.  What  do 
you  want,  then  ?" 

"  I  want  my  daughter  to  be  an  honest  woman." 

"  So  she  shall,  and  her  path  shall  be  strewed  with  flowers." 

"Oh!  oh!" 

"  You  may  laugh  if  you  like ;  but  I  give  you  my  word  that 
your  daughter  shall  be  made  an  honest  woman  of — nay,  she  shall 
be  married." 

"  What !     After  she  has  been  dishonored  by  your  Prince  ?" 

"  That  word  again  !  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  it  would  be  difficult, 
now.  to  find  a  man  of  any  rank  who  would  marry  your  child, 
poor,  and  living  in  obscurity ;  but  I  say,  sir,  that  after  she  has 
.been  honored  by  the  attention  of  the  Prince — after  she  has 
acquired  the  manners  of  the  court,  and  is  besides,  rich — she  may 
marry  whom  she  pleases  j  she  will  have  plenty  of  suitors— she 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OP   BLOOD.  205 

need  only  choose.  You  need  not  stop  your  ears,  like  Ulysses  and 
his  followers,  in  order  not  to  hear  the  songs  of  the  syrens.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  that  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XV,  things  were  always 
managed  in  this  way.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  have  seen  in  the 
hands  of  Lebel,  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  knowing  intimately, 
letters  from  the  first  men  in  the  kingdom,  requesting  as  a  favor 
the  admission  of  their  daughters  into  that  charming  retreat  called 
the  Pare  auy  Cerfs,  and  that  their  only  fear  was  that  their 
daughters  should  not  be  handsome  enough  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  King.  Now,  you  will  not  hare  this  to  fear,  for  Ing6- 
nue  is  really  charming." 

"  I  believe  you,  sir,  because  I  know  that  at  that  time  the  nobi- 
lity seemed  possessed  of  a  demon  of  infamy  and  cupidity.  I  know, 
sir,  that  when  your  King  Louis  XV,  the  well  beloved,  as  you 
term  him — Louis  XV,  the  tyrant — chose  his  mistress,  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  from  the  middle  classes,  and  his  mistress  Madame 
Dubarry,  from  the  dregs  of  the  people,  the  nobility  thought  he 
had  insulted  .them  and  infringed  on  their  privileges,  which  gave 
them  a  right  of  giving  the  King  a  mistress  from  their  own  rank. 
But  these  days  of  corruption  are  gone  by.  Louis  XV  is  dead, 
and  we  are  entering  on  a  period  of  reform  and  regeneration. 
Your  offers  are  vain.  Let  us  end  this  interview.  First,  however, 
allow  me  to  say  two  things :  the  first  is,  that  you  play  a  very 
contemptible  part ;  the  second  is,  that  I  advise  you  to  take  to 
another  way  of  getting  your  living.  There  can  be  no  trade  lower 
than  that  of  trafficking  for  the  honor  of  a  young  and  innocent 
girl.  And  now,  having  finished  my  say,  I  have  only  one  thing 
more  to  request— which  is,  that  you  will  get  out  of  my  house  as 
fast  as  possible." 

"As  quickly  as  I  can.  I  assure  you,  my  dear  M.  Retif — for 
your  speeches  are  not  more  amusing  than  your  books.  Only 
before  I  go,  I  am  obliged  to  say  one  thing  more." 

"  Say  it,  and  be  gone." 

"  It  is  very  disagreeable  to  say." 

"  It  can't  be  any  worse  than  what  you  have  said  already." 


206  INGENUE  }    OR, 

*• 

"  Well,  then,  under  existing  circumstancess  I  shall  be  under 
the  necessity  of  declaring  war  against  you."- 

"  You  are  welcome  to  do  so,  I  don't  care." 

"  Like  a  general  before  a  city,  I  have  summoned  you  to  sur- 
render; and  now,  as  you  have  not  surrendered,  I  am  going  to 
besiege  your  daughter,  or  rather  your  house." 

"  I  shall  take  means  to  defend  both." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  you — so  you  needn't  be  sorry." 

"  Adieu,  M.  Retif— I  am  going  to  begin  with  your  daughter.' 

"  Agreed." 

"  I  shall  send  messengers." 

"  I  will  receive  them." 

"  The  Prince  himself  will  come." 

"  I  will  open  the  door  for  him." 

"  And  then  ?» 

u  I  will  make  him  blush  at  his  conduct." 

"  How  will  you  manage  that  ?" 

"  By  talking  to  him  as  he  has  never  been  talked  to  yet,  nor 
you  neither}  M.  Anger." 

"You'll  bore  him  to  death." 

"  Then  he'll  go." 

"  Well,  Retif,  you  are  a  sharp  fellow,  and  there's  some  plea- 
sure in  contending  with  yeu." 

"  Ah !"  said  Retif,  "I  love  Ingenue,  and  I  will  guard  her  honor 
as  the  greatest  treasure  I  possess." 

"  Yes — for  another  to  steal  her  from  you." 

"  Never  !  I  keep  her  for  myself." 

"For  yourself!  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to 
act  out  one  of  your  own  books—'  Zephira?'  and  fall  in  love  with 
your  own  daughter  ?  By  Jove,  the  police  had  better  see  to  it !" 

"  I  love  Ingenue  as  a  father,  and  the  purity  of  the  child  is  the 
safe-gard  of  the  father." 

«  Well— good-by  for  the  present." 

"No— good-by  for  ever." 


THE   KIRST   DATS   Or   BLOOD.  207 

«  Oh  no !  We  shall  meet  again  before  long.  Do  you  hear  this 
sound  ?" 

'•  What  sound  ?" 

"  The  sound  of  gold  in  my  pockets ;"  so  saying,  Anger  drew  a 
handful  ef  gold  from  his  pocket  and  displayed  it  to  the  old  man- 

Retifs  eyes  glistened,  and  Anger  perceived  it. 
•  "  Here,"  continued  he,  u  is  what  Beaumarchais.  a  man  as  vir- 
tuous as  yourself!  only  a  little  richer — here  is  what  Beaumarchais 
calls  the  sinews  of  war.  Pretty  ammunition— sparkling  cartridges 
— are  they  not  ?  With  this  artillery  am  I  going  to  besiege  Inge- 
nue •,"  and  with  a  mocking  laugh,  tossing  and  playing  with  the 
gold  pieces,  Anger  left  the  room. 

Retif,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  spot  where  Anger  had  stood,  fell 
into  profound  thought.  The  result  was  a  vague  feeling  of  fear 
and  apprehension. 

•'  He  will  carry  off  my  daughter — if  not  to-day,  to-morrow. 
How  can  I  prevent  it  ?"  Then,  throwing  up  his  eyes  and  arms 
to  heaven,  he  exclaimed,  or  rather  declaimed  : 

"  Terrible  times  !  fatal  country  !  in  which  a  father  is  exposed 
to  be  thus  insulted— is  obliged  to  listen  to  such  a  proposition — 
without  daring  to  kick  the  vile  pander  out  of  doors,  for  fear  he 
should  be  sent  to  the  Bastille  an  hour  after  !  Terrible  times ! 
Luckily,  my  friend  Mercier  says,  they  won't  last  long  !" 

After  a  pause,  he  resumed : 

,' Ingenue  Is  a  good  girl;  bright  and  Innocent  j  let  me  see 
what  she  says. 

Ingenue  obeyed  her  father's  summons,  and  entered  his  study. 
There,  seating  her  by  him,  Retif  repeated  to  her  the  brilliant 
offers  made  by  Anger — saying  nothing  of  his  own  apprehensions, 
in  order  not  to  influence  her. 

Ingenue  began  to  laugh.  She  had  in  her  heart  the  talisman 
against  all  temptation— a  firm,  true  love. 

'•  It  may  appear  all  very  funny  to  you,"  said  Retif,  shocked  at 
the  unexpected  effect  of  his  speech ;  "  but  I  can  assure  you  it  is 
no  laughing  matter.  The  Prince  is  all-powerful,  and  will  stop  at 
nothing.  How  will  you  defend  yourself  against  all  his  assaults  ?" 


208  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  With  three  words,"  said  Ingenue,  putting  her  hand  on  her 
heart,  throwing  back  her  fair  curls  from  her  pure  brow,  and 
casting  her  limpid  blue  eyes  to  heaven :  "  /  love  another  /" 

Retif  looked  at  her  in  admiration;  and  thumping  with  his 
hand,  still  full  of  type,  on  the  table,  he  exclaimed : 

"  We  are  strong,  then,  my  child  !" 

So  saying,  he  kissed  her  forehead,  and  hastened  to  his  type- 
stand,  there  to  set  up  this  last  episode  in  the  novel  of  his  life. 


THE   FIBST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  209 

CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

THE     SIMPLICITY    OF     IXG*NUE. 

As  he  proceeded  to  set  op  his  daughter's  words  in  "  bourgeois" 
Roman  capitals,  as  the  types  came  under  his  fingers,  Eetif  medi- 
tated these  words  most  profoundly. 

As  he  meditated  on  all  the  circumstances,  he  felt  perfectly  re- 
assured as  to  Ingenue's  having  any  participation  in  the  projects  of 
the  worthy  Monsieur  Anger ;  but  the  more  he  meditated,  tin-  more 
anxious  he  became  about  the  state  of  his  daughter's  heart. 

The  young  girl,  who  could  boldly  and  plainly  say  to  her  father, 
"  I  love  another,"  must  possess  a  degree  of  firmness  and  resolution 
calculated  to  inspire  considerable  anxiety  in .  tlie  bosom  of  her 
father.  Under  the  influence  of  tnesa  refiVctions,  Ketif  gradually 
suspended  his  occupation;  and  after  repeated  "hum!  hums!"  he 
came  to  the  determination  of  questioning  his  daughter  as  to  the 
object  of  her  love,  so  positively  and  boldly  asserted. 

Accordingly,  he  proceeded  to  his  daughter's  room,  and  found  her 
standing  by  the  open  window,  carelessly  picking  to  pieces  a  branch 
of  clematis  which  had  climbed  up  the  wall 

Drawing  a  chair,  Retif  sat  down  in  front  of  his  daughter,  and 
proceeded  to  question  her,  with  all  the  resources  of  the  most  pro- 
found diplomacy. 

"  My  love,"  said  he,  tenderly,  to  her,  "  it  appears,  then,  from 
what  you  say,  that  you  arc  well  acquainted  with  the  passion  called 
love?" 

Ingenue,  lifting  up  her  mild,  blue  eyes,  replied,  with  a  smile — 

"  I  am." 

"  And  how  did  you  become  acquainted  with  the  existence  of  this 
passion  ?  Who  first  spoke  to  you  of  1t  ?" 

"  First  from  your  books,  my  dear  father — from  which  you  often 
used  to  read  me  whole  chapters." 

»  Well  ?" 


210  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  Many,  almost  all,  these  chapters,  dear  papa,  are  about  love." 

"  That  is  true,  to  a  certain  extent ;  and  yet,  I  always  take  care 
to  select  the  best  passages  for  you." 

"The  best,  father?" 

"  Well — I  mean  the  most  innocent,"  said  Retif. 

"Is  love  not  always  innocent,  then?"  said  Ingenue,  with  an 
infantine  grace  perfectly  irresistible. 

"  Charming !  delightful !"  exclaimed  the  novelist.  "  Stop !  I 
must  put  that  down !  It  is  just  the  comment  on  your  other  phrase 
— '  I  love  another ;'  and,  with  this,  Retif  scribbled  down  this  reply 
of  his  daughter  on  a  piece  of  paper  he  picked  off  the  floor.  Thrust- 
ing  it  into  his  pocket,  amidst  a  score  of  other  memorandums,  to  be 
referred  to  as  occasion  might  require,  and  turning  again  to  his 
daughter,  he  proceeded  with  his  interrogations. 

"  You  said,  Ingenue,  first  from  my  books.  There  is,  then,  a 
second  to  this  first  ?" 

Ingenue  smiled,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Come,  Ingenue,  how  and  when  did  you  learn  that  you  felt  the 
passion  of  love  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  loved,"  replied  Ingenue,  at  last,  "  until 
I  saw  some  one  whom  I  did  not  love — and  then  I  felt  sure  that  my 
heart  belonged  to  another." 

"  So,  you  have  seen  some  one  whom  you  didn't  love,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  And  'where  ?" 

"  On  the  night  of  the  fusillade." 

"  And  who  may  this  some  one  be  ?" 

"  Oh — a  very  handsome  young  man !" 

"  Young  ?     About  what  age,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  About  twenty-six,  I  suppose." 

"  Why,  you  never  told  me  this  before,  child !" 

"  Oh,  yes  I  did,  papa — I  told  you  that,  on  that  night,  after  I  was 
separated  from  you,  I  had  been  escorted  home  by  a  stranger." 

"  Oh,  Ingenue,  there  seem  to  be  a  great  many  young  men  in  our 


"  It  isn't  my  fault,  papa,"  said  Ingenue. 


•  THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  211 

"  No,  I  suppose  it  isn't  Thia  young  man,  then,  was  about  six- 
and-twenty,  you  say  ? — handsome,  too  1  And  how  was  he  dressed  ?" 

"Elegantly." 

"Hum!    Fine  eyes,  thick  lips,  eh?    Tall  and  slender,  eh  ?" 

"  I  really  could  not  telL" 

"  Try  and  remember." 

11  As  far  as  I  remember,  then,  he  answers  to  your  description." 

"  It  was  the  prince." 

«  Probably,"  said  Ingenue. 

"Why  probably?" 

"  Because,  when  I  told  him  that  I  was  alarmed  at  a  man  who 
kept  following  me,  he  said — '  Oh,  never  fear,  that  man  is  one  of 
my  attendants.' " 

'•  Plots  and  counter  plots !"  said  Betif.  "  The  tranquility  of  my 
life  is  at  an  end !  Oh,  liberty !  oh,  tyranny !  oh,  unhappy, 
oppressed  people !  Well,  Ingenue,  so  much  for  the  man  you  do 
not  love.  Now  tell  me  something  about  the  man  you  do  love." 

••  Tou  know  all  about  the  man  I  love,  my  dear  father." 

"  Never  mind,  tell  me  his  name  again." 

"Well,  his  name  is  M.  Christian." 

"  Just  as  I  supposed,"  said  Betif,  considerably  puzzled  as  to  how 
he  should  direct  the  complicated  novel  of  his  daughter's  life,  thus 
early  began.  He  again  discussed  with  himself,  as  he  had  done  at 
the  time  of  the  accident,  the  propriety  of  telling  his  daughter  what 
had  befallen  her  lover. 

After  a  few  minutes'  reflection,  Ketif  did  what  most  men  do 
when  they  reflect.  Setting  aside  his  good  impulses,  he  yielded  to 
the  bad  one  which  enjoined  him  to  conceal  the  sod  event  from  his 
daughter.  Betif  was  a  little  jealous  of  his  daughter's  love.  He 
was  angry,  too,  that  this  girl,  to  whom  he  had  given  the  name  of 
Ingenue,  and  whom  he  intended  to  make  a  model  of  innocence  and 
simplicity,  should  have  contrived  to  fall  in  love  without  his  know- 
ledge, and  to  carry  on  a  love  plot  without  his  connivance.  Now, 
he  knew  full  well  that  to  tell  the  young  girl  that  her  lover  was 
suffering,  and  wounded,  was  to  render  him  more  interesting  in  her 
eyes ;  therefore,  he  resolved  on  saying  nothing. 


212  INGENUE  ;    OR,  • 

J'  Monsieur  Christian,"  said  he,  at  length,  commencing  a  new 
plan  of  attack  ;  "  Monsieur  Christian,  indeed !" 

"  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  of  M.  Christian  ?"  replied  Ingenue, 
in  a  tone  of  aggressive  self-possession,  which  gave  promise  of  extra- 
ordinary strength  of  character  and  self-will. 

"  I  have  to  say  that  M.  Christian  is  a  liar  I" 

"Christian?" 

"  I  have  to  say  that  M.  Christian  only  seeks  to  seduce  you,  just 
like  all  the  rest." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"  Because,  M.  Christian,  who  told  you  he  was  a  mechanic,  did 
he  not  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Is  not  a  mechanic." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that !" 

"  Oh,  you  knew  that,  did  you  ?" 

"  Why,  it  did  not  require  much  penetration  to  see  it,  I  think, 
without  any  one  telling  it." 

"  So !  you  found  it  out  yourself,  did  you  ?" 

"I  did.    What 'more?" 

"  What  more  ?"  said  Eetif,  shocked  at  the  cool,  sarcastic  way 
in  which  his  daughter  spoke ;  "  what  more  ?  why,  we  have  to  con- 
sider whether  Mademoiselle  Ingenue  Retif  de  la  Bretbnne,  who 
disdained  the  love  of  a  prince,  ought  to  accept  the  love  of  a  young, 
dissipated  scamp  of  a  page." 

"  A  page !"  exclaimed  Ingenue,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment  which 
was  not  lost  on  her  father, 

"  Yes-;  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  page  to  the  prince,"  re- 
peated Retif,  knowing,  from  the  reputation  enjoyed  by  these  young 
scape-graces,  the  blow  he  was  inflicting  on  his  daughter. 

Inge'nue  turned  pale.  The  defiant  expression  with  which  she 
had  hitherto  looked  at  her  father,  forsook  her  countenance. 
Throwing  back  her  head,  and  closing  her  eyes,  she  repeated,  in  a 
tremulous  voice —  i 

"  A  page !  a  page  I" 

"  Yes ;  a  page  to  His  Royal  Highness,  the  Count  d' Artois — 


THE   FIB8T   DAYS   Of   BLOOD.  213 

that  is,  the  servant  of  a  libertine  1"  exclaimed  Rctif,  triumphantly. 
But,  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  and  shocked  at  his  own  auda- 
cious words,  he  added,  in  so  low  a  tone  that  his  daughter  scarcely 
heard  him :  "yes,  my  child,  I  say  it  with  the  noble  courage  of  a 
man  who  disdains  tyrant*,  and  dares  to  speak  the  truth ;  Monsieur 
le  Comte  d'Artois  is  a  confirmed  libertine,  a  heartless  seducer,  a 
rout,  as  bad  as  any  of  the  infamous  court  of  the  Regent  of 

(>.      in-;."  » 

"What  has  all  this  to  do  with  M.  Christian?"  Baid  Ingenue, 
recovering  herself  by  degrees. 

"  Why,  did  you  never  hear  the  proverb,  '  Lake  master,  like 
man  ?'  Do  you  think  it  probable  that  the  page  of  such  a  prince 
is  a  model  of  virtue  and  morality  ?" 

"Why  should  he  not  be?"  said  Ing6nue,  somewhat  tremu- 
lously. 

"  Because,  if  he  were,  he  would  not  remaim  in  the  service  of  His 
Royal  Highness." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  father,"  said  Ingtnue.    "  I " 

-And,  now  I  think  of  it,"  exclaimed  Retif,  interrupting  his 
daughter,  "I  have  no  doubt  that  this  fellow  was  nothing  more 
than  an  emissary,  like  the  other." 

"What  other,  papa?" 

«  Why,  this  Anger.  I  see  it  all,  now !"  exclaimed  the  novelist, 
triumphantly ;  "  it  is  as  clear  as  day  1  Monsieur  le  Comte  d'Artois 
sends  his  page  to  you ;  but  the  page  having  been  stopped  on  the 
way,  he  sends  our  worthy  friend,  M.  Anger." 

Ingenue,  who  watched  every  word  and  intonation  of  her  father, 
was  particularly  struck  by  the  way  in  which  he  pronounced  the 
words,  "stopped  on  the  way."  She  began  to  suspect,  not 
Christian's  accident — that,  of  course,  she  could  not'  define — but 
some  foul  play  on  the  part  of  her  father. 

"  How,  'stopped  on  the  way?'  "  said  she,  looking  at  her  father. 

Retif  felt  the  imprudence  he  had  been  guilty  of;  but,  quickly 
vpairimr  it,  he  said — 

"  I  speak  figuratively — I  mean  on  his  wav  to  success ;  and  J  say 


INGENT7K  ;    OB, 

I  stopped  him  on  his  way  to  success,  when  I  convicted  him  of  not 
being  what  he  represented  himself  to  be." 

"  Oh !"  said  Ingenue,  after  a  pause,  during  which  she  had  been 
forced  to  recognize  the  plausibility  of  her  father's  words;  "but 
how  did  you  find  out  that  he  was  a  page  ?" 

"  Nothing  was  easier." 

"  Tell  me  how  it  was,  however." 

"Why,  I  followed  him,  to  be  sure." 

"  Oh,  you  followed  him  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  see  me  follow  him  ?" 

"  Then  he  turned  round,  I  suppose,  and  told  you  that  he  was  one 
of  the  Count  d'Artois'  pages?"  persisted  Ingenue,  determined  on 
cross-examining  her  father. 

"  N-O,  he  did  not  exactly  tell  me,"  said  Retif,  determined  not 
to  tell  a  direct  falsehood,  which  his  daughter  might  afterwards 
discover. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  know  it,  then?"  asked  the  inexorable 
Ingenue. 

"Why,  I  followed  him  till  he  came  to  the  Ecuries  d'Artois. 
There  he  went  in,  and  then,  I,  going  up  to  the  porter,  inquired 
who  was  the  young  man  who  had  just  entered,  to  which  the  porter 
replied — '  that  is  one  of  His  Highness'  pages,  who  lives  here.' " 

'.'  Oh,  he  lives,  then,  at  the  Ecuries  d'Artois  ?" 

"  Of  course  he  does,"  said  Retif. 

Ingenue  again  put  back  her  head  and  closed  her  eyes.  This 
time  she  was  not  reflecting  on  her  father's  plans,  however,  but  on 
her  own. 

"However,"  said  Retif, .aware  that  he  had  said  too  much; 
"  there  is  nothing  more  to  fear  from  M.  Christian." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  we  shall  not  see  him  again." 

"  You  think  M.  Christian  will  never  come  here  again  ?"  said 
Ingenue. 

"  Why  should  he  ?  Having  failed  in  his  object,  he  will  take 
pretty  good  care  to  keep  away." 

"But  he  came  for  another " 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  215 

"That  is  another  reason  for  his  staying  away.  Auger  has  now 
taken  his  place." 

Itetif  was  touched  by  the  pallid  cheek  and  haggard  look  of  his 
daughter. 

^  Come,  Ingenue  1"  said  he,  in  a  coaxing  tone ;  "  do  not  be  down- 
hearted. I  thought  you  had  more  pride!  You  would  not  like  a 
man  to  despise  .you,  would  you?" 

"Never!"  said  Ingenue. 

"  Well,  what  does  a  man  do,  who  thinks  so  meanly  of  you,  as  to 
try  and  purchase  you,  to  give  you  to  another  ?" 

"M.  Auger,  do  you  mean?" 

"M.  Auger?  no,  child! — the  other  man." 

'•  M.  Christian  never  tried  to  purchase  me,"  said  Ingenue. 

fHow  do  you  know  thatt" 

"  He  never  told  me  BO." 

"It  was  the  truth,  though." 

"  It  was  a  singular  way,  I  think,  of  purchasing  me  for  another, 
to  t  ry  and  make  me  fall  in  love  with  himself,"  said  Ingenue,  very 
much  puzzling  her  father  with  her  simple  logic. 

"Oh,  Ing6nue  1"  said  he :  "you  do  not  know  the  tricks  of  these 
gay  deceivers,  as  I  do  I" 

"M.  Christian  had  no  tricks."   .     .     . 

"They  are  full  of  deceits  and  plots." 

"  Not  Christian," 

••  How  can  you  tell  that?" 

"Because  Christian  was  gentle,  tender,  timid,  submissive " 

"That's  just  it!"  exclaimed  Betif. 

"  Full  of  respect  and  reverence " 

"  Of  course  I    He  was  saving  you  for  another." 

"If  he  had  meant  to  keep  me  for  another,  he  would  not  have 
embraced  me  as  he  did,"  said  Ingenue,  still  logically  pursuing  her 
argument. 

"  Embrace  you !"  exclaimed  Retif,  startled  out  of  all  propriety ; 
"  the  devil !  did  he  embrace  you  then  ?" 

"  Often  and  often,"  tranquilly  replied  Ingenue. 

"  Retif  looked  at  his  daughter ;  then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he 


216  INGENUE  J    OR, 

began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  with  great  agitation,  mutter- 
ing to  himself — 

"  Oh !  woman !  oh,  instinct !  oh,  love !" 

"  Well,  father,"  said  Ingenue,  "  explain  why  he  embraced  me." 

"  Don't  ask  me  for  explanations !"  said  Eetif ;  "  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  the  very  fact  of  M.  Christian's  embracing  you,  proves  him  to 
be  a  libertine." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,  father,"  said  the  young  girl ;  "  for  I  used 
often  to  embrace  M.  Christian  myself — and  I  am  no  libertine !" 

This  innocent  confession,  this  logical  declaration,  was  irresistible. 
Betif's.  anger  fell  before  them.  He  resolved  to  temporize  with 
his  daughter.  So,  turning  to  her,  he  said,  in  a  gentle  tone, 

"  Well,  well,  my  child— time  will  show." 

"What,  papa?" 

•  "  Why,  which  of  us  is  right  in  the  opinion  we  entertain  of  Chris- 
tian ;  for  if  he  loves  you  sincerely  and  in  all  honesty  and  truth,  he 
will  come  back." 

"  Of  cdurse  he  will." 

"  But  if  he  should  not,"  said  Eetif,  somewhat  hesitatingly — for 
he  felt  he  was  about  entering  on  a  train  of  baseness  and  deceit ;  "  if 
he  should  not  return,  will  you  believe  that  Christian  is  what  I  told 
you — a  seducer,  whether  for  himself  or  for  another,  nothing  more 
than  a  vile  seducer, — say,  will  you  believe  it  ?" 

Ingenue  hesitated  to  reply. 

"  Can't  you  speak  ?"  said  her  father,  impatiently :  "  I  begin  to 
think  you  have  no  proper  pride — I  declare  I  do  I" 
.     Ingenue  looked  up  at  her  father,  with  a  smile,  and  said, 

"  I  confess  that  if  M.  Christian  should  not  return,  I  shall  feel 
very  much  astonished." 

"  Astonished !     Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Well — probably  I  should  begin  to  suspect " 

"To  suspect  that  he  was  merely  an  agent  of  the  Prince,  like 
M.  Auger?'.' 

'<  Oh  no,  not  that — I  shall  never  suspect  him  of  that !" 

"  What  will  you,  then,  suspect  ?" 


THE   FIBST   DAYS   OP   BLOOD.  217 

"  I  shall  suspect,  father,  that  yon  discouraged  him ;  that  you 
frightened  him ;  that  you  prevented  his  loving  me." 

"  And  marrying  you  ?"  inquired  Retif. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  whether  he  wanted  to  saarry  me,"  replied 
Ingenue ;  "  but  I  feel  sure  that  he  wanted  to  love  me." 

-  Well,  then,  I  will  make  a  bet  with  yon,"  said  Retif,  with  a  loud 
laugh. 

"  Do  not  laugh,  father !    Your  laugh  makes  me  wretched." 

"  I  bet,"  said  Retif,  pretending  not  to  hear ;  "  I  bet  that  within 
a  fortnight — no,  within  a  month — I  will  give  you  a  month  ! — we 
neither  hear  nor  see  anything  of  M.  Christian." 

"  Why  do  you  fix  a  specific  tune  ?"  said  Ingenue ;  "  do  you  think 
1  H;  will  come  back  after  that  time  ?" 

"  Well— aay  three  months-H»ix  months— if  you  like." 

"  One  month  will  do,  father,"  replied  Ingenue ;  "  for  I  am  sure 
that  if  he  comes  back  at  all,  it  will  be  long  before  the  expiration 
of  a  month,  or  even  of  a  fortnight.  If  he  stays  away  a  mouth,  he 
will  never,  never  come  back  again." 

"  You  reason  like  an  angel !"  said  Retif. 

"  But  I  maintain,"  continued  Ingenue  with  a  smile,  "  that  he  will 
be  back  before  to-morrow." 

"  We  shall  see !"  said  Retif,  perfectly  satisfied  at  having  a  whole 
month  before  him,  during  which  so  much  might  happen  to  make 
Christian  forget  Ingenue,  and  Ingenue  forget  Christian. 

But  the  able  novelist,  the  creator  of  so  many  heroes  of  love  adven- 
tures, forgot,  in  his  calculations,  youth  and  chance,  which  were  both 
on  the  lovers'  side.  Chance  or  fortune,  whatever  the  fickle  goddess 
may  be  called,  favors  more  particularly  love  and  mischief  than 
fathers  and  propriety. 

So  Retif,  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  result  of  this  skirmish  with 
his  daughter,  proceeded  to  set  up  his  "Paris  by  Night,"  and 
Ingenue,  relying  implicitly  on  love  and  Christian,  resumed  her 
serenity,  and  proceeded  to  wait  with  patience  and  resignation. 


218  IXGENUE;  OR. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

MONSIEUR    ANGER. 

Now  the  worthy  Monsieur  Auger  had  made  promises  to  Monsieur 
le  Count  d'Artois  which  it  was  important  he  should  keep,  and 
threats  to  M.  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,  which  it  was  equally  important 
he  should  execute. 

Worthy  M.  Auger,  however,  could  not  but  feel  that  in  both  prom- 
ises and  menaces  he  had  gone  too  far. 

As  to  success  in  the  enterprize .  concerning  Ingenue,  he  had 
totally  failed. 

As  to  his  threats,  the  times  were  changed  when  it  would  have 
been  easy  for  the  retainer  of  a  prince  to  carry  his  menaces  into 
execution.  Louis  XYI.,  who  had  the  best  intentions,  no  longer 
allowed  lettres  de  cachets  to  be  lightly  given,  as  in  the  days  of  M.  de 
Sartines  and  Louis  XV.  True,  he  sent  Beaumarchais  to  prison — 
but  it  was  not  until  his  majesty's  conscience  had  been  tranquilized 
with  the  coviction  of  the  crimes  of  the  author  contained  in  his 
famous  Marriage  of -Figaro. 

But  to  ask  for  a  lettre  de  cacliet  to  imprison  a  father,  for  no  other 
crime  than  that  he  had  refused  to  traffic  for  the  honor  of  his  daugh- 
ter, was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Louis  XV.  might  have  admitted 
the  crime,  but  Louis  XVI.  would  have  been  horror-struck  at  the 
accusation,  and  far  more  likely  to  punish  Monsieur  Auger  than 
Retif  de  la  Bretonne. 

Retif,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  been  fully  aware,  when  he  defied 
Monsieur  Auger's  power,  how  very  limited  that  power  was.  All 
he  did,  therefore,  was  to  watch  Ingenue.  For  one  whole  week 
the  scouts  and  spies  were  entirely  baffled.  Auger  began  to  be 
anxious — for  the  Prince  had  given  him  but  a  fortnight,  half  of 
which  was  now  expired. 

Retif  made  himself  his  daughter's  shadow — followed  her  every- 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  219 

where,  even  to  her  window,  whence  he  often  had  the  satisfaction  of 
making  an  ironical  bat  scrupulously  profound  bow  to  M.  Auger, 
•who  was  watching  beneath. 

Retif,  too,  intercepted  every  missive,  scrutinized  every  article 
that  came  into  his  house,  even  to  the  loaves  of  bread,  which  he  broke 
in  two,  lest  some  unscrupulous  baker  should  have  been  won  over 
into  making  a  medium  of  his  dough. 

When  the  father  and  daughter  happened  to  go  out  .together, 
Retif  seemed  to  hare,  in  his  well-worn  coat,  innumerably  more  eyes 
than  Argus,  the  spy  of  the  jealous  queen  of  Olympus.  All  was 
vain — every  emissary  was  discovered — every  trap  avoided — every 
letter  intercepted — every  signal  understood.  Auger  was  in  despair, 
and  what  is  more,  exhausted  by  fatigue  and  watching.  Ho  resolved, 
therefore,  to  have  recourse  to  violence. 

One  evening,  as  Ingenue  and  her  father  were  returning  from 
M.  Reveillon's,  Auger  darted  suddenly  upon  them,  and  seizing  the 
young  girl,  attempted  to  carry  her  off. 

Retif,  instead  of  attempting  a  resistance,  in  which  he  knew  he 
would  get  the  worst,  shouted  as  loudly  as  he  could,  "  Watch! 
watch!"  and  Ingenue,  nowise  daunted,  added  her  shrill  young 
voice  to  his,  and  cried  "  Watch  !  watch.  /" 

Auger,  blind  with  passion,  still  persisted ;  stumbling  over  the 
cane  Retif  purposely  put  in  his  way,  he  fell  into  the  gutter.  Before 
he  could  rise,  the  neighbors,  alarmed  at  the  cries,  appeared  at  the 
windows,  and  before  he  could  renew  his  attempt,  the  watch  appeared 
at  the  end  of  the  street — so  that  he  hod  only  time  to  fly,  cursing 
his  ill-luck,  the  meddling  neighbors,  and  the  promptitude  of  the 
watch. 

Still  Anger  did  not  give  it  up.  If  he  could  but  get  her  into  the 
palace,  all  would  be  well— for  then'the  Prince  would  be  responsible 
for  the  event  which  took  her  there. 

"  If  I  had  not  been  alone,  I  should  have  succeeded,"  said  Auger 
to  himself ;  and  accordingly,  he  sought  for  an  assistant. 

Xow  it  so  happened  that  almost  at  the  very  moment  he  was 
making  this  reflection  to  himself,  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  was  saying 
to  himself  something  very  like  it :  * 


220  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"  If  the  rascal  had  not  been  alone,"  said  he,  "  he  would  no  doubt 
have  succeeded."  Accordingly,  from  that  day  foward,  Ketif  never 
left  Keveillon's  without  being  accompained  by  three  or  four  of  his 
workmen,  who  asked  nothing  better  than  to  pummel  some  of  the 
sycophants  of  the  aristocracy,  with  whom  they  had  very  little 
sympathy. 

For  some  days,  no  attempt  was  made.  At  length,  one  evening,  v 
as  Ingenue  and  her  father  turned  the  comer  of  their  own  street,  a 
man  apparently  intoxicated,  stumbled  up  to  Ingenue,  vowing  he 
would  embrace  her,  and  seized  her  in  his  arms.  Ingenue  screamed 
for  help — when  another  man  rushed  up  to  Eetif,  seizing  him  by  the 
throat.  The  escort  from  Reveillon's,  who  kept  always  at  a  dis- 
tance, in  the  hope  of  thus  alluring  the  enemy  into  some  violence, 
now  came  full  speed  to  the  rescue.  Auger  was  bearing  Ingenue 
to  a  coach  hard  by,  but  he  was  soon  obliged  to  drop  his  burden, 
from  the  assault  of.  four  vigorous  fellows  armed  with  staves  and 
cowhides,  who  set  about  belaboring  him  with  the  most  intense 
earnestness  and  enthusiasm.  Auger's  companion  strove  to  fly ;  but 
one  of  the  four  made  short  work  of  him,  and  laid  him  sprawling  and 
insensible  in  the  gutter.  The  father  and  daughter  escaped  from 
the  melee,  hastened  into  their  house,  of  which  they  diligently  locked 
and  barred  the  door,  and  then  had  just  time  to  see,  from  the  window, 
^Auger  drag  himself  painfully  along  out  of  the  reach  of  the  assailants, 
whom  he  surprised  by  the  sight  of  a  pistol,  to  which  alone  he  owed 
his  safety. 

This  scene  of  course  attracted  the  attention  of  the  neighbors, 
and  the  watch  having  arrived  on  the  spot,  took  up  .Auger's  assis- 
tant, who  was  in  a  bad  condition,  and  whom  nobody  appeared  to 
claim.  As  for  Ingenue,  it  established  for  her  a  reputation  for 
beauty  and  virtue,  of  which  the  whole  neighborhood  were  justly 
proud. 

Auger,  beaten  to  a  jelly,  was  discouraged,  and  gave  up  the  chase. 
He  determined,  as  soon  as  he  could  walk,  to  repair  to  the  Prince, 
tell  him  the  result  of  his  attempts,  and  to  give  up  his  mission. 

The  prince  had  just  retired  for  the  night,  in  a  very  bad  temper. 
He  had  lost  two  thousand  louia  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  betting 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  221 

upon  his  own  stud  against  the  English  race-horses  of  the  Duke. 
The  Kiug  had  lectured  him,  and  the  Queen  had  turned  her  buck 
upon  him. 

He  was  in  a  most  unmanageable  mood.  Auger  knew  that,  but 
he  could  not  help  it — for  he  had  the  choice  neither  of  time  nor 
place.  The  Count  d'  Artois  had  ordered  him  to  be  sent  for ;  he  had 
asked  for  a  fortnight,  aad  that  fortnight  had  now  been  expired  for 
more  than  three  days. 

As  Auger  entered,  the  prince  was  banging  at  his  pillows,  trying 
to  find  a  comfortable  position,  which  his  irritated  nerves  made  it 
difficult  to  do. 

••  So,  it's  you,  at  last !"  exclaimed  the  prince ;  "  really,  that's 
lucky!  Why,  I  fancied  you  were  gone  to  America.  Well,  sir, 
what  luck?" 

Auger  sighed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Where  is  the  young  girl  ?" 

"Ah,  your  Highness !  I  am  the  most  unlucky  man  in  the 
world !"  Auger  then,  in  a  most  lamentable  tone,  proceeded  to 
tc-11  the  prince  all  that  had  befallen  him,  and  how  he  had  utterly 
failed. 

The  prince  listened  to  him  without  giving  any  signs  of  com- 
passion. When  he  had  finished,  his  highness  said,  in  an  angry 
tone— 

«  You  are  a  fool,  M.  Auger  1" 

"  I  begin  to  think  so,  your  Highness." 

"  And  a  faithless  servant,  M.  Auger !" 

"  Oh !  your  Highness " 

"  A  rascal,  M.  Anger  1"      ..-«;  • ; 

"  Oh !  your  Highness " 

"  A  fool,  and  a  rascal,  M.  Auger  I  I  repeat  it !  What !  yon  go 
fend  compromise  me  by  acts  of  .violence  in  the  public  streets,  when 
you  know  how  unpopular  I  am  already  1" 

'•  I  could  not  help  it." 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  disavow  you,  M.  Auger;  and  what's 
more " 

"  Your  Highness  can  say  nothing  worse  than  this." 


222  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

"Yes  I  can,  M.  Auger,  for  I  have  a  great  mind  to  give  you  up, 
and  have  you  hanged." 

"  That  would  be  very  unjust,  after  all  the  trouble,  all  the  suffer- 
ing  » 

"  AU  your  own  fault,  sir.  What !  a  little  chit  of  a  girl,  who  has 
no  family,  no  friends,  no  protector  but  an  old  man !" 

"  I  can  assure  your  Highness  that  she  has  protectors,  with  good, 
powerful  arms,  too.'* 

"  Well,  why  did  you  not  try  and  revenge  yourself?" 

"  How  could  I  ?    All  the  neighborhood  was  afoot." 

"  Well,  if  violence  would  not  do,  you  could  employ  stratagem." 

"  The  father,  your  Highness,  is  an  old  fox." 

"  Get  rid  of  him." 

"  I  have  tried,  but  can't." 

"  Try  and  seduce  the  daughter  by  finery  and  presents." 

"  I  cannot  even  speak  to  her." 

"  Why,  have  you  no  imagination,  Monsieur  Auger  ?  Have  you 
no  resources  ?  Are  you  a  brute,  a  fool,  an  ass,  M.  Auger  ?  Why, 
I  would  wager  that  the  first  auvergnat  ticket-porter  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  would  contrive  to  manage  this  affair — the  simplest  in 
the  world — and  what  is  more,  make  it  succeed."  • 

"  Your  Highness  is  mistaken."  .-.  -'- 

"But,  M.  Auger,  how  do  you  think  Bontems,  Bachelier  and 
Lebel  managed  these  things?  How  do  you  think  the  valet  de 
chambre  of  the  Regent  managed  these  things?  or  the  secretary 
of  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  ?  Did  any  of  these  devoted  heroes  ever 
miss  a  woman,  think  you?  And  you  come  and  tell  me  you  have 
failed !  Get  along,  M.  Auger !  You  are  a  fool !" 

"  No,  your  Highness — but  circumstances " 

"  Circumstances,  sir !  A  man — I  mean  a  man  of  any  brains — 
moulds  circumstances  to  his  own  purposes.  By  the  Lord,  M. 
Auger !  I  went  up  into  this  young  girl's  apartments,  into  the  very 
midst  of  printing  presses  and  musty  papers ;  and  if  I  had  not  been 
afraid  that  there  was  a  lover  hidden  in  some  corner,  who  would 
make  a  row,  why,  sir,  I  would  have  staid  there  till  morning,  and 
Mile.  Ingenue  should  have  cried  her  eyes  out  when  I  went  away, 


THE  FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  223 

and  entreated  me  to  come  again.  As  true  as  you  are  there,  if  I 
had  been  one  of  the  officers  of  my  own  household,  instead  of  being 
myself,  this  is  what  I  would  have  done." 

"  Oh !"  sighed  Auger. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  could  have  managed  the  whole  thing  myself.  But, 
no ;  I  leave  it  to  you,  whom  I  pay,  and  you  make  a  mess  of  the 
.whole  afiair.  Why,  sir,  there  is  not  a  stodeut  of  Paris  who  would 
not  laugh  at  me  for  not  succeeding  with  Mile,  Ingenue  de  la  Bre- 
toune.  Go  along,  Auger,  you  are  an  ignorant  fool." 

"  But,  your  Highness  must  allow  me  to  say  that  all  these  suc- 
cessful emissaries,  Lebel,  Bachelier,  Raffe  and  Bontems,  lived  in 
far  other  times  than  these." 

"  They  did ;  in  times  when  princes  had  faithful  and  intelligent 
servants." 

"  Ah  1  those  were  good  times ;  easy  times !" 

"  In  what  were  they  easier  than  the  present,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"Why,  your  Highness,  in  those  times  these  gentlemen  had  lettres 
dc  cachets  at  their  command,  by  which  they  could  get  rid  of  any- 
body at  a  minute's  notice.  They  were  protected  by  all  the 
authorities,  and  could  compel  the  watch  to  do  their  bidding.  M. 
le  Regent  d'Orleans  had  so  many  great  ladies  that  he  never  thought 
of  any  little,  insignificant  citizens ;  and  the  present  Duke  of  Orleans 
sends  for  his  horses  and  his  mistresses  from  England." 

••  And  didn't  the  Duke  de  Richelieu  make  love  to  the  princesses 
of  the  blood,  spite  of  their  father,  sir,  who  was  Regent?  And  do 
you  think  Ingenue  more  difficult  to  get  at  than  Mile,  de  Valois,  or 
M.  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  more  powerful  than  Philip  d'Orleaus  ?" 

"  Your  Highness  must  allow  me  to  say  that  times  are  changed. 
Mercier  says  that  some  great  catastrophe  must  be  at  hqnd,  for 
what  was  once  thought  a  favor,  is  now  looked  on  as  a  dishonor. 
I  don't  know  whether  princes  are  less  powerful,  or  women  more 
virtuous ;  but  I  know  times  are  changed.  Why,  your  Highness 
himself  says  that  if  I  were  taken,  he  would  let  me  be  hanged,  and 
not  claim  me.  Is  not  that  enough  to  discourage  any  one  ?  Ah! 
if  I  had  the  watch  and  the  police  at  my  command  1  if  I  had  lettres 


224  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

de  cachets  at  my  command  1  But,  then,  your  Royal  Highness  will 
have  no  noise,  no  violence." 

"  Of  course  I  will  not,"  exclaimed  the  Prince.  "  I  pay  you  to 
do  the  work,  and_you  want  me  to  take  the  blame  !  A  nice  fellow 
you  are  to  employ !  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  if  I  give 
you  an  army  of  three  thousand  men,  you  can  carry  off  Ingenue, 
and  that  if  I  give  you  two  pieces  of  cannon  from  the  Invalides, 
you  can  batter  down  the  door  ?  But  that  is  violence,  and  I  don't 
want  you  for  that.  I  want  diplomacy,  I  want  adroitness,  I  want 
cunning.  Times  are  changed,  since  I  bear  all  this  patiently. 
Why,  sir,  if  this  girl  is  so  difficult  to  get  at,  if  this  girl  would 
have  puzzled  Lebel  and  Bontems,  why  you  should  have  shown 
yourself  cleverer  than  either  Lebel  or  Bontems.  I  am  told  every 
day  of  the  progress  of  the  age,  of  the  new  lights  which  have 
dawned  upon  this  country.  Why  the  devil,  sir,  don't  you  contrive 
to  see  clearly  by  some  of  them  ?" 

Auger  attempted  to  reply,  but  the  prince  was  in  too  great  a 
passion  to  listen  to  anything.  Starting  up  from  his  pillows,  the 
Count  d'Artois  exclaimed — 

"  Leave  the  room,  sir — leave  the  room  !" 

"  I  will  do  better — only  try  me  once  again !"  entreated  Auger. 

"  Go  out,  sir !  Let  me  never  see  you  again  !  I  discharge  you 
.  from  my  service  1" 

"  Your  Highness  actually  sends  me  away  ?" 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  Without  cause " 

f '  Without  cause,  sir  ?" 

"  I  mean,  without  any  fault." 

"  The  greatest  fault,  sir,  is  to  fail." 

"  Let  me  try  again." 

"  Never,  sir." 

"  I  may  be  luckier." 

"  I  will  not  "employ  you  again.  I'll  have  this  girl  by  some  other 
means,  if  it's  only  to  prove  to  you  what  an  ass  you  have  been. 
Go,  sir!" 

With  these  words,  the  prince,  taking  a  purse  from  a  table  by 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  225 

nis  bed-side,  threw  it  at  Anger;  then,  drawing  the  clothes  np  to 
his  ears,  he  lay  down  with  his  face  towards  the  wall,  and  prepared 
to  sleep. 

Auger  looked  at  him  for  a  moment — then,  picking  up  the  purse, 
he  left  the  room,  muttering — 

"  I'll  be  revenged  I" 

These  words,  of  course,  made  no  impression  upon  the  prince — 
for  what  could  M.  Auger  do  to  him  ? 

In  this,  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois  was  wrong.  There  is  no  enemy 
too  small  to  do  us  evil,  as  many  about  this  very  time,  or  at  least 
in  the  times  that  were  approaching,  discovered — Madame  du 
Barry,  for  instance,  who  was  once  so  great  and  powerful— Madame 
du  Barry,  who  tried  on  the  crown  of  France,  which  proved  so 
fatal  to  Marie  Antoinette— Madame  du  Barry,  who  was  forgotten 
and  forgiven  by  all  her  powerful  enemies,  but  whose  head  fell  on 
the  scaffold,  denounced  by  a  little  black  foot-boy,  whom  once  she 
had  struck  with  her  jewel-handled  riding-whip.  M.  le  Count 
d'Artois  was  wrong  to  disdain  the  enmity  and  revenge  of  M. 
Auger. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

THE      A  B  B  B       BONHOMME. 

MONSIEUB  ACOKR  lost  his  position  at  conVt,  or  rather,  about  the 
eourt — for  he  was  only  one  of  those  prince's  tools,  who,  deserving 
nothing  but  the  gallowg,  sometimes  attain  fortune,  and  die  quietly 
In  their  beds,  honored  and  respected.  M.  Auger  was  no  longer 
sure  of  house,  raiment,  and  lodging,  as  he  had  been  heretofore — 
a  certainty  which  makes  so  many  slaves,  and  quiets  so  many  con- 
sciences. 

Now,  when  Auger  vowed  vengeance,  all  this  had  passed  rapidly 
through  his  mind.  When  the  Prince  had  disdainfully  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall,  and  pretended  not  to  hear  the  threat,  he  had 
thought  of  none  of  this. 


226  INGENUE;  OR, 

More  was  the  pity — for  times  were  approaching  when  each 
insect  would  have  power  to  sting. 

Three  days  after  the  scene  we  have  related,  a  man  whose  hag- 
gard looks  and  faltering  steps  told  of  mental  and  bodily  suffering, 
presented  himself  at  the  residence  of  the  cure  of  St.  Jacques  du 
Chardonet. 

It  was  a  magnificent  autumn  afternoon.  The  good  cure  had 
dined,  and  was  sitting  most  comfortably  on  a  bench  in  his  little 
garden,  digesting  his  dinner  and  a  pamphlet  which  was  then  mak- 
ing a  great'noise,  attributed  by  some  to  Mirabeau,  and  by  others 
to  Marat.  Whether  written  by  one  or  the  other,  or  by  neither  of 
the  two,  it  was  certain  that  the  spirit  of  the  pamphlet  was  both 
fervent  and  patriotic. 

The  worthy  curate  whom  we  are  now  introducing  to  our  read- 
ers, educated  in  the  philosophical  ideas  of  Port-Koyal,  practised  a 
fancy  religion,  such  as,  sixty  years  later,  the  Abbe  Chatel  professed 
and  preached,  being  a  mixture  of  belief  and  unbelief,  much  in 
favor  with  the  timid  individuals  of  the  revolution. 

A  dangerous  creed  was  it,  for  it  dispensed  with  a  belief  in  God ; 
but  our  curate  was  not  particular ;  the.  bishops  had  grown  lenient, 
and  no  longer  subjected  the  mind  and  conscience  to  the  strict 
discipline  ad  usum  ecclesia. 

Our  good  curate,  full  of  philosophy  and  patriotism,  thought  a 
good  deal  more  of  earth  than  he  did  of  heaven,  and  was  destined 
to  be  one  of  the  priests  who  helped  the  revolution  to  emerge  from 
its  swaddling  clothes — ene  of  those  who  swore  allegiance  to  the 
Constitution — men  of  honest  intentions  and  guiltless  hearts,  but 
who  delivered  their  king  and  their  God  to  the  mercy  of  the  people. 

The  Abbe  Bonhomine — such  was  the  name  of  this  good  pastor — 
was  busily  engaged  with  his  pamphlet,  when  Mile.  Jacqueline,  his 
housekeeper,  came  to  call  him,  to  come  and  speak  to  the  haggard 
individual  who  had  inquired  for  him. 

The  Abbe  desired  Mile.  Jacqueline  to  introduce  the  visitor,  and 
rolling  up  his  pamphlet,  he  hid  it  in  a  thick  tuft  of  mignonette 
near  him. 

Priests,  like  physicians,  are  somewhat  physiognomists ;  the  Abbe, 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  221 

therefore,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and  spectacles  on  his  visitor, 
judged  at  once  to  what  class  he  belonged,  and  saw  his  agitation. 

"  What  may  you  want,  sir  ?"  said  he,  somewhat  coldly. 

The  visitor  did  not  speak,  but  was  evidently  strongly  excited, 
twirling  his  hat,  and  looking  wildly  around  him. 

"  A  bad  countenance,"  said  the  priest  to  himself ;  "  a  precious 
hang-dog  countenance!"  said  he,  looking  round  to  see  whether 
Jacqueline  was  within  call. 

The  strangetv  now  gathering  strength,  said,  in  a  humble  tone — 

"  Monsieur  le  cure;  I  am  come  to  throw  myself  on  your  mercy." 

"  I  thought  so,"  murmured  the  .cure  ;  "  some  precious  rogue  in 
fear  of  the  police.  Bad  business,  bad  business,  sir!"  replied  he 
aloud ;  "  I  know  not  what  you  mean :  I  am  not  a  judge,  but  a 
confessor." 

"  It  is  a  confession  I  wish  to  make,"  said  the  visitor. 

'•  Hang  the  fellow !"  said  the  cure,  always  mentally ;  "  I  was  so 
comfortable  when  he  came  1  But,  my  dear  sir,"  said  he  aloud ; 
"a  confession  is  a  serious  aflkir.  Tou  had  better  come  to  me 
when  I  am  in  church." 

"  When  will  your  worship  be  at  the  confessional  ?" 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow." 

The  visitor  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh!"  exclaimed  he  ;  "  I  cannot  wait  till  then." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  replied  the  priest ;  "  but  I  have  made  certain 
rules  which  I  cannot  break,  and  I  never  hear  any  confessions  after 
mid-day." 

"  I  must  have  absolution  immediately,"  said  the  visitor. 

••  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  the  priest,  getting  anxious. 

"It  is  very  easy  to  understand  me,  I  should  think,"  said  tho 
visitor.  "  I  wish  for  absolution  before  I  die." 

"  You  do  not  look  to  be  in  a  dying  condition,  my  good  friend." 

"  And  yet,  in  an  hour  I  shall  have  ceased  to  exist." 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  Yes— when  I  have  received  absolution  for  my  crime." 

"  Oh  !  you  have  a  crime  to  confess  ?" 

"  A  horrible  crime." 

T» 


228  INGEINUE  ;    OR, 

"  Oh  1  oh !"  murmured  the  curate,  rather  anxious  and  alarmed. 

"  A  crime  after  which  it  is  impossible  to  live,  but  for  which, 
before  I  appear  before  God,  I  must  obtain  absolution." 

"  Well,  but  my  good  friend,  you  don't  think  I  am  going  to  allow 
you  to  kill  yourself?" 

"  Try  if  you  can  prevent  it,"  replied  the  man,  in  a  desperate 
tone,  which  thrilled  the  priest. 

"  Of  course  I  can,  for  I  am  stronger  than  the  devil  which  pos- 
sesses you.  "When  -I  say  devil,  I  mean  evil  spirit — for  of  course 
you  do  not  imagine  that  I  believe  in  the  devil,  like  a  monk  of  the 
middle  ages.  Though  I  should  be  perfectly  justified  in  believing 
in  the  devil — Diabolus,  as  the  holy  Scriptures  call  him.  In  fact, 
it  is  no  more  than  my  duty  to  believe  in  the  devil." 

"  But  you  prefer  not  believing  in  the  devil  ?"  said  the  visitor,  in 
an  insinuating  tone. 

"  We  all  have  our  way  of  thinking,  my  good  friend." 

"  We  have ;  and  mine  is  to  throw  myself  into  the  river  as  soon 
as  I  have  received  absolution." 

"  But,  my  good  friend,  I  cannot  give  you  absolution  if  you  have 
these  intentions.  Suicide  is  a  mortal  sin.  You  have  no  right  to 
destroy  the  work  of  the  Creator." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  am  the  work  of  the  Creator,  Mon- 
sieur le  cure  ?"  said  the  man,  with  a  mixture  of  irony  and  hypoc- 
risy far  from  pleasant  to  the  good  old  priest,  whose  philosophical 
ideas  were  often  leading  him  to  the  same  'insidious  questions. 
However,  casting  down  his  eves,  he  sanctimoniously  replied— 

"  I  am  bound  to  believe  it,  sir.  Does  not  Scripture  say  that 
God  created  both  man  and  woman  after  his  own  image  ?  Suicide, 
therefore,  is  a  mortal  sin;  and  if  you  die  with  this  sin  on  your 
conscience,  besides  the  one  you  already  confess,  you  will  be  in  a 
bad  way." 

"  Not  in  a  worse  plight  than  I  am  at  present,  Monsieur  le  Cure ; 
for  I  am  desperate,  and  unable  to  bear  the  weight  of  my  crimes." 
"  Come,  come,  my  good  friend,"  replied  the  curate,  whose  kind 
ness  of  heart  was  getting  the  better  of  his  annoyance  and  alarm : 


THE   riBST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  229 

"  we  will  try  and  cure  you  of  desperation.    While  there  is  life, 
there  is  hope,  you  know." 

"Give  me  hope,  then." 

••  First  I  must  know  the  evil,  before  I  apply  the  remedy. 

"  You  consent,  then,  to  hear  my  confession?" 

"  I  do,"  said  the  worthy  priest,  rising  to  proceed  to  the  church. 

But  the  garden  was  BO  still,  so  fresh,  and  so  perfumed,  that  the 
curate,  looking  around,  fell  back  into  his  comfortable  cushioned 
seat  with  a  profound  sigh. 

••  I  have  heard  say  that  God  is  better  appreciated  in  his  works 
than  in  temples  made  with  hands,  and  that  he  listens  to  prayers 
made  under  the  canopy  of  his  heavens,  rather  than  to  those  under 
the  carved  roofs  of  churches  and  cathedrals,"  said  IK*. 

"  So  I  think,"  replied  the  penitent 

"  Then  let  us  stay  here.  Here,  away  from  all,  you  can  tell  me 
softly,  in  my  ear,  the  terrible  crime  which  weighs  on  your  con- 
science. This  place  will  be  as  sacred  to  me  as  a  confessional" 

«  Willingly  do  I  consent    Shall  I  kneel,  holy  father  ?" 

The  priest  looked  up,  and  beheld  Mile.  Jacqueline  gazing  at 
them  from  her  kitchen  window.  Pointing  her  out  to  his  visitor. 
he  said — 

"  Do  not  let  us  excite  her  feminine  curiosity,  my  good  man,  by 
anything  extraordinary.  Do  not  kneel,  but  sit  down  quietly  beside 
me,  as  if  we  were  conversing.  There,  tliat's-  it ;  now  begin. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THB    CONFESSION. 

THE  strange  visitor,  sitting  down  by  the  curate,  began  to  sigh 
and  groan,  in  a  manner  which  again  alarmed  the  curate. 
"  What  is  your  name  ?"  inquired  he  of  his  penitent. 
"  Auger,  sir." 


230  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  And  what  is  your  profession  ?" 

"  I  belong,  or  rather  I  did  belong,  to  the  household  of  the  Count 
d'Artois." 

"  Indeed !  in  what  capacity  ?" 

"  In  what  capacity?    Why,  in  a  most  confidential. capacity  ;  I 
know  not  how  else  to  call  it." 

"  Cannot  the  power  and  influence  of  the  prince  assist  you  in 
your  misfortunes  ?" 

"  If  you  remember,  sir,  I  said  that  I  had  belonged  to  the 
prince's  household ;  not  that  I  did  now  belong  to  it." 

"  Has  he,  then,  discharged  you  ?" 

"  No ;  I  quitted  of  my  own  accord."  . 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Oh,  because  the  service  exacted  of  me  did  not  suit  me ;  poverty 
does  not  prevent  honorable  feeling." 

"  Dear  me  !  what  was  it  that  the  prince  required  of  you  ?" 

"  Does  your  worship  know  the  Comte  d'Artois  ?" 

"I  have  heard  of  him  as  being  an  elegant  and  accomplished 
prince,  full  of  courage  and  honor." 

"  Yes,  but  of  most  relaxed  morality." 

"  Indeed !"  said  the  curate,  reddening. 

"  Well,  you  understand  me,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  will  listen  to  all  you  have  to  say,"  said  the  curate,  drawing 
himself  up  into  a  corner,  and  looking  most  sanctimoniously  down. 

"  I  was,  then,  since  I  must  confess  it,  the  confidential  minister 
of  all  the  prince's  intrigues." 

"  Ah,  my  son !"  said  the  curate ;  "  how  could  you  ever  consent 
to  undertake  so  shameful  an  office  ?" 

"  One  must  live,"  replied  the  penitent,  doggedly. 

"You  might  easily  have  found  some  more  honest  way  than 
this." 

"  So  I  said  to  myself,  but  too  late." 

"  How  long  were  you  with  the  prince  ?" 
£  «  Three  years." 

"  That's  a  long  time  to  persevere  in  evil  ways." 

"  Well  I  have  left  him,  now." 


THE   FIRST  DAYS  OF  BLOOD.  231 

"Too  late— too  lateT 

"  Better  late  than  never." 

"  True,  true — proceed !" 

"  Ah !  I  shall  never  have  the  courage  to  reveal  my  shame !" 

"  Come,  come !"  said  the  priest,  encouragingly,  "  do  not  be 
afraid." 

"  Well,  then,  I  was  ordered  by  the  prince  to  seduce  a  young  girl 
belonging  to  this  neighborhood." 

"  Shame,  shame !"  exclaimed  the  priest,  making  the  sign  of  the 

IT"--. 

"  Oh,  such  an  excellent  young  creature !  the  pride  and  hope  of 
her  father !  Ah !  I  see  yon  thiuk  me  unworthy  of  all  com- 


"  There  is  mercy  for  all.  Still,  it  is  dreadful  to  think  you  should 
have  undertaken  such  a  base  mission.  And  did  you  succeed  in 
your  vile  attempt  ?" 

"  I  did  not" 

«  Ah  1"  exclaimed  the  curate,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  failed,  spite  of  all  the  sums  his  royal  Highness  offered  me — 
spite  of  every  effort.  But,  holy  father,  if  I  had  succeeded,  I  should 
never  have  had  the  courage  to  live  to  tell  any  one  of  it" 

••  Go  on,  my  son  ;  for,  as  yet,  I  only  see  a  crime  of  intention,  not 
of  commission." 

"Ah!  I  have  not  told  all  1" 

"  What !  is  there  something  worse  ?" 

"  I  had  undertaken,"  said  Auger,  "  to  seduce  this  young  girl, 
and  set  about  it  with  an  energy  and  perseverance  which  bad  as 
well  aa  good  actions  have  alike  the  power  of  inspiring." 

"  Alas !"  replied  the  curate,  "  half  the  energy  employed  for  evil 
wonld  suffice  to  gain  Heaven," 

"  I  failed  in  my  first  attempt" 

«  Ah  1  the  young  girl  resisted  ?" 

«  No  ;  the  first  time  it  was  the  father  I  tried  to  seduce." 

"The  father?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  wanted  him  to  sell  his  daughter  ;  that,  I  know,  was  a 
great  crime." 


232  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

"If  not  a  crime,  it  was  a  very  bad  action,  to  say  the  least 
of  it" 

"  Fortunately,  the  father  resisted,  stoutly  and  manfully." 

"  Fortunately,  indeed !" 

"  Then,  I  resolved  to  address  myself  directly  to  the  daughter. 
But  threats,  presents,  flatteries,  bribes,  all  were  of  no  avail." 

"  Honest  and  good  people,  both  father  and  daughter.  And  did 
they  know  that  you  spoke  in  the  name  of  the  prince  ?" 

«  They  did." 

"  You  ought  .to  have  desisted  when  you  found  them  incorrupt- 
ible." 

"  I  was  hardened  in  guilt.  I  tell  you  I  am  a  wretch  unworthy 
of  compassion,"  said  Auger,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  There  is  still  pardon  for  you,  if  you  repent,"  said  the  curate. 

"  Ah !  but  there  is  still  more  to  be  told." 

"  More  ?"  said  the  curate,  utterly  astounded  at  so  much  cor- 
ruption. 

"Yes.  Having  failed  by  fair  means,  I  resolved  to  employ 
violence.  I  resolved  to  carry  off  the  young  girl.  For  this,  I 
engaged  a  companion,  who  was  to  seize  the  father  whilst  I  took 
off  the  daughter." 

"  An  open  assault !" 

"  Yes ;  in  the  open  streets,  at  night,  and  it  cost  the  life  of  a 
man  ;  there  is  the  crime,  nothing  less  than  murder,  you  see." 

"  Murder !  homicide !    Alas,  alas !" 

"  So,  having  this  on  my  conscience,  I  have  resolved  to  implore 
absolution,  and  then  to  seek  the  mercy  of  God." 

The  cure  was  quite  overcome;  and,  like  all  timid  characters, 
somewhat  awed  by  the  boldness  of  his  penitent's  crimes. 

"  So,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion,  "  you  killed 
the  father?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  did  not." 

"  Then  your  friend  did?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  nor  he  either." 

"  But  was  not  the  poor  father  the  victim  ?" 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  233 

11  No,  not  the  father,  but  the  unhappy  man  whom  1  pushed  into 
this  terrible  and  guilty  attempt" 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  the  father  ?  That  alters  the  case.  The  life 
of  this  innocent  and  worthy  man  would  have  great  weight  in  the 
estimation  of  your  crimes  before  God." 

"Still,  this  man  was  innocent;  he  was  acting  merely  by  my 
orders.  The  young  girl  and  her  father,  aware  of  my  attempts,  had 
found  an  escort,  and  when  I  assaulted  them,  this  man  was  killed. 
Oh !  oh !"  groaned  Auger. 

"  I  can  conceive  your  sorrow  ;  still,  you  are  not  so  guilty  as  I 
thought" 

"  Do  you  really  say  what  you  think  ?" 

"  I  speak  to  yon  in  the  name  of  God,  my  son.  But  I  have  still 
many  questions  to  ask." 

"  You  now  know  alL" 

"  Excepting  the  end  of  the  adventure." 

"  Well,  as  soon  as  I  saw  its  fatal  termination,  I  hastened  to  the 
prince,  and,  spite  of  all  his  offers,  I  resolutely  refused  to  go  any 
further,  gave  in  my  resignation,  and  quitted  his  service." 

"  That  was  right,"  said  the  priest,  "  though,  perhaps,  somewhat 
perilous." 

'•  Nothing  is  perilous  for  a  man  resolved  on  death." 

"  I  cannot  give  you  absolution  unless  you  swear  to  me  that  you 
will  not  commit  suicide." 

Auger  here  began  to  sigh,  and  groan,  and  shake  his  head,  as 
though  he  could  not  resign  himself  to  life. 

"My  son,"  said  the  curate,  fully  persuaded  of  his  sincerity; 
11  my  son !  the  true  criminal  in  this  affair  is  not  you." 

"  Who  then  ?"  exclaimed  Auger. 

"The  prince,"  replied  the  priest,  solemnly;  the  prince,  who, 
forgetting  the  duties  of  his  high  station,  and  the  commands  of 
God,  precipitated  you  into  crime.  Oh,  the  great !  the  princes  and 
nobles  of  the  land !"  proceeded  the  priest,  in  a  tone  of  enthusiasm, 
and  a  style  of  which  Rousseau  had  given  the  example ;  "  when  will 
they  be  driven  from  the  earth  ?  when  will  the  weak  cease  to  be  a 
prey  to  the  guilty  ?" 


234  INGENUE;  OR, 

Here  the  worthy  cure  paused,  for  he  remembered  that  the  time 
so  devoutly  to  be  wished  for  not  having  arrived,  the  Count  d'Ar- 
tois  had  it  in  his  power  to  do  him  considerable  harm  ;  and,  patriot 
as  he  was,  he  did  not  care  to  compromise  himself.  Turning  to 
his  penitent,  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory  and  consolatory  tone — 

"  My  son,  your  repentance  is  so  profound,  that  if  you  pass  an 
exemplary  life,  you  can  repair  your  crimes  in  the  sight  of  God. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes — for  I  repeat  it,  the  instigator  is  the  real  criminal." 

Suddenly  Auger,  who  had  not  played  out  his  part,  began  again 
to  groan  and  sob. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  cannot  live  1  I  cannot  live !" 

"  Why,  what  now,  my  son  ?" 

"  What !  live  under  the  displeasure  and  hatred  of  my  victims ! 
live  without  obtaining  the  pardon  of  those  whom  I  have  so  mor- 
tally offended  ?  Never !  never !  never !"  and  at  each  never  Auger 
beat  his  breast. 

"  Come,  be  reasonable,  or  I  will  not  give  you  absolution." 

"  But  I  may  meet  my  victims  every  day,  at  all  hours.  They 
live  close  by — even  as  I  go  out  from  here,  I  may  meet  them." 

"  Indeed !  do  you  think  I  know  them  ?" 

"  By  name,  certainly.  The  young  girl's  name  is  Ingenue,  and 
the  father's,  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,  the  novelist." 

"  The  author  of  the  '  Betrayed  Country  Girl,'  and  other  equally 
pernicious  books?" 

"  The  same." 

"Well,  I  should  never  have  thought  the  man  so  scrupulous, 
from  the  morals  he  professes  in  his  works." 

"  And  the  daughter  is  a  model  of  modesty,  purity,  and  virtue. 
No !  Without  their  esteem  and  forgiveness,  I  cannot,  I  will  not 
consent  to  live." 

"  Well,  my  son,  what  is  to  be  done  ?"   .       v.. , 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  their  pardon,  or  die." 

"  What  reparation  are  you  disposed  to  make  ?  have  you  any  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  but  hope  they  would  forgive  me — if  I  thought 
they  could  ever  know  my  contrition,  my  repentance !" 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  235 

" If  I  were  to  tell  them?"  suggested  the  kind-hearted  old  priest 

"  You  would  save  my  life," 

"  But  I  do  not  know  them,"  replied  the  cure  ;  "  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  have  not  a  very  lively  sympathy  for  M.  Eetif  de  la  Bre- 
tonne." 

"  Oh,  must  I  then  seek  another  confidantr-go  again  through  the 
same  dreadful  confession  ?" 

••  No,  no— you  shall  not  do  that !"  replied  the  priest,  still  hesi- 
tating. 

"  Then  must  I  live  the  life  of  a  criminal,  or  die *     ..'  ^  '•'. 

••  Hash,  my  son  I  I  will  undertake  the  task ;  I  will  visit  this 
man,  though  I  have  some  scruples  of  conscience,  and  I  will  obtain 
your  pardon." 

"  Then  you  will  be  my  guardian  angel — you  will  have  saved  my 
body  and  my  soul." 

«  Go  in  peace,  my  son,"  said  the  cure,  "  and  rely  on  me." 

Auger  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  the  priest,  and  kissed 
the  hem  of  his  garment — then  raising  his  arms  to  heaven,  with 
streaming  eyes  he  dashed  from  the  bouse. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

IN  WHICH   R*TIF   AND  INGixUI   FORGIVE. 


MK  KNTIME  Retif  was  occupied  in  combating  the  influence  of 
Christian,  and  Ingenue  in  waiting  for  him. 

Both  had  rejoiced  in  their  victory  over  Auger,  but  now  he 
seemed  an  unimportant  personage  to  both  father  and  daughter, 
compared  with  Christian. 

Ingenue  kept  a  close  watch  at  the  window,  expecting  every 
instant  to  see  the  well-known  figure  of  her  lover  appear  at  the 
other  end  of  the  street  —  but  in  vain. 

After  the  first  two  days,  Ingenue  and  her  father  began  long 
U  • 


236  INGENUE  ;    OK, 

arguments  about  the  absent  lover,  which  were  satisfactory  to  nei 
ther  party.  Perhaps  he  was  ashamed  of  having  given  a  false 
name.  "Was  he  afraid  of  Eetif  ?  Was  he  angry  at  Betif's  treat- 
ment? All  these  were  insufficient  reasons  for  his  absence — for, 
after  all,  Christian  loved  Ingenue,  not  Eetif. 

Ingenue  chose  to  maintain  these  causes  as  sufficient  for  twenty- 
four  hours'  absence — then  for  forty-eight;  but  they  could  scarcely 
excuse  four,  six,  eight,  ten  days'  absence.  Poor  Ingenue  began  to 
be  assailed  with  doubts  and  misgivings. 

"Was  her  father  right  ?  Not  in  his  surmises  that  Christian  was 
the  agent  of  another  ;  that  she  never  thought  for  an  instant.  But 
was  he  right  when  he  said  that  Christian's  love  was  a  mere  passing 
fancy — a  caprice,  which  the  difficulties  he  encountered  had  dispelled  ? 

Still  no  Christian  came.  Auger  had  ceased  his  attempts ;  and 
the  life  of  the  father  and  daughter  became  monotonous  and  sad. 

So  stood  matters,  when,  one  day,  Retif,  descending  from  the 
garret  in  which  he  had  been  laying  the  first  sheets  of  his  Noctur- 
nal Spectator  to  dry,  encountered  the  curate  on  the  threshold  of  his 
apartment. 

Retif,  as  it  may  be  supposed,  had  very  little  to  do  with  the 
Church,  his  only  link  with  it  being  through  his  daughter,  who  four 
times  a  year  confessed  herself  to  an  old  priest  of  the  parish,  who 
had  been  her  mother's  confessor. 

He  was  therefore  somewhat  astonished  at  the  presence  of  a  priest 
in  his  apartment,  but  concluded  that  he  came  for  some  charitable 
purpose,  on  a  begging  mission. 

Now,  Retif  was  without  a  sol — expecting  hourly  a  supply  from 
his  publisher.  He  was  therefore  not  disposed  to  receive  the  good 
old  cure  with  any  great  civility,  and  it  was  with  stiff  and  stately 
politeness  that  he  showed  him  into  his  private  room,  and  offered  him 
an  arm  chair.  Yet,  after  the  few  first  words,  the  patriotic  priest  and 
the  philosophical  writer  understood  each  other  perfectly.  Both,  in 
their  different  ways,  were  impelled  by  the  same  motives,  and  had 
the  same  objects  in  view.  The  winter  wind,  when  it  first  sweeps 
through  the  forest,  strips  the  leaves  from  the  feeblest  as  well  as 
from  the  strongest  trees. 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  237 

Now  the  tempestuous  wind  of  the  revolution,  that  winter  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  had  begun  to  blow  with  violence. 

The  curate,  fully  convinced  of  the  sincerity  of  his  penitent, 
began  most  eloquently  to  plead  his  cause,  adroitly  showing  how 
Auger  was  a  convert  to  their  doctrine,  and  how,  in  bis  repentance, 
he  had  denounced  the  tyranny  and  corruption  of  the  aristocracy. 

The  patriotic  cure  from  this  went  on  to  show  how  all  tended 
to  the  majesty  of  the  people,  and  how  even  a  fine  nature,  such  as* 
the  prince's,  was  perverted  by  the  detestable  principles  of  aristo- 
cratic education;  and  so,  in  a  short  time,  both  Eetif  and  the 
cure  got  to  excusing  Anger,  and  dilating  on  the  vices  of  the 
aristocracy.  From  this  the  transition  to  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness  was  easy.  The  cure  then  declared  that  Auger's  very  life 
depended  on  his  pardon. 

"I  forgive  him,"  said  Eetif,  with  sublime  dignity.  "I  freely 
forgive  him." 

The  cure  was  overpowered  with  joy. 

"  And  now  let  us  go  to  Ingenue:  It  is  but  right  that  a  young 
girl  should  see  the  punishment  and  expiation  of  crime,  so  that  shu 
may  have  a  proper  idea  of  divine  justice." 

"  A  fine  thought,  sir,"  said  the  cure ;  "  one  I  entirely  approve." 

They  repaired  to  Ingenue's  apartment.  Ingenue,  like  sister 
Ann,  was  at  the  window ;  and,  like  sister  Ann,  saw  no  one  coming. 

Betif  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  and  Ingenue,  with  a  sad 
smile  to  her  father,  and  a  respectful  obeisance  to  the  priest,  came 
and  sat  down  in  her  accustomed  place. 

Retif  then  related  the  contrition,  the  repentance  and  the  despair 
of  Auger.  Ingenue  made  no  observations  ;  she  was  thinking  of 
Christian. 

"Well,"  said  her  father,  in  conclusion,  "are  yon  satisfied?  Do 
you  forgive  him  ?" 

"  Certainly,  I  forgive  him  freely." 

"  Ah !"  said  the  cure,  "  you  have  saved  the  poor  man's  life ;  your 
magnanimity,  Monsieur  Retif,  has  brought  a  sinner  to  repentance. 
But  there  is  still  more  to  be  done,  a  further  exercise  of  charity." 


238  INGENUE  J    OB, 

"  Indeed,"  said  Eetif,  dreading  the  attack  on  his  purse. 

"  This  poor  man  has  given  up  every  thing." 

"  He  is  richer  than  you  or  I." 

"  No,  indeed,  for  he  gave  up  all  his  ill-gotten  wealth  to  the  prince, 
and  also  renounced  his  position  in  his  household." 

"The  devil!"  said  Eetif;  "it  would  be  a  hard  case  if  I  were 
called  on  to  aid  him  and  support  him,  after  his  conduct." 

"  To  aid  him,  not  to  support  him.  You  employ  a  great  many 
people  ;  he  wants  work." 

"  I  employ  no  one,  for  I  print  my  works  myself ;  besides,  Auger 
knows  nothing  of  printing,  I  imagine?" 

"  He  is  willing  to  learn  any  honest  trade ;  have  you  no  acquaint- 
ances to  whom  you  could  recommend  him?" 

•"  Oh  yes,  plenty  of  acquaintanes ;  have  we  not,  Ingenue  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa !" 

"  M.  Mercier,  he  does  all  the  work  himself ;  think  of  somebody, 
Ingenue." 

"  M.  Reveillon,"  replied  the  young  girl,  abstractedly. 

"  M'.  Reveillon,  who  has  the  great  paper-factory  ?" 

"  The  same." 

"  The  very  thing ;  he  employs  a  great  many  people.  Do  give 
this  unfortunate  and  misguided  man  an  opportunity  of  retrieving 
himself.  Speak  to  M.  Reveillon  about  him." 

"  I  will,  this  very  day.     Can  he  do  anything  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  without  a  certain  education  ;  that  is  easy  to  see." 

"  Still,  I  imagine  that  Reveillon,  who  has  daughters  of  his  own, 
and  knows  all  about  Auger — indeed  it  was  his  workmen  who " 

"  But  when  he  hears  of  his  repentance,"  interrupted  the  cure. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Retif,  "  these  tradesmen  are  hard  of 
belief ;  they  have  no  imagination." 

"  Well,  then,  tell  M.  Reveillon  that  Auger  is  one  of  the  many 
victims  of  the  corruption  of  the  aristocracy." 

"  That  may  do  better,"  said  Retif. 

"Then  you  will  try?" 

"  I  will."    And  so  they  parted. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  239 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

AX    ARISTOCRAT    AND    A    DEMOCRAT    OF    THE    FAUBOURG 
ST.    ANTOINE. 

SPITE  of  Auger's  repentance  and  reform,  Retif  thought  it  pru- 
dent not  to  venture  late  into  the  streets ;  it  was,  therefore,  not 
until  the  next  day  that  he  and  his  daughter  repaired  to  Reveillon's. 

Bercillon  was  engaged  with  one  of  his  neighbors.  Ills  two 
daughters,  taking  Ingenue  off  with  them,  requested  him  to  wait  in 
the  sitting-room  till  he  came  out  of  his  study. 

«  Who  is  with  him?" 

44  M.  Santerre  ?" 

44  Santerre,  the  brewer  ?" 

44  Yea,  you  can  hear  them,"  replied  one  of  Reveillon's  daughters. 

44  They  are  talking  pretty  loud,  I  must  say." 

"  Ah,  they  always  do,  when  they  talk  politics." 

44  They  seem  getting  angry." 

"  Oh,  they  always  do ;  but  as  they  have  commercial  interests 
together,  there  is  no  fear  of  their  quarrelling." 

Retif,  now  left  to  himself,  could  not  but  hear  the  conversation, 
or  rather  discussion,  going  on  hi  the  adjoining  room. 

'•  Oh,  ho,  they  are  talking  of  Dubois,  the  captain  of  the  watch." 

"He  was  right,  perfectly  right,"  said  Reveillon;  "he  behaved 
like  a  brave  and  faithful  soldier." 

44  He  was  a  traitor  and  a  rascal,"  shouted  Santerre, "  for  he  fired  on 
the  people." 

"  The  people,  when  they  revolt,  become  a  mere  mob,"  persisted 
Reveillon ;  "  he.  was  right" 

44  Do  you  think  that  you  only  have  a  right  to  have  opinions  and 
to  profess  them,  because  you  are  rich?  Do  you  think  that  poor 
people  have  not  the  same  right?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  any  one  has  a  right  to  break  the  laws,  dis- 
obey the  King,  and  disturb  the  peace." 
U« 


240  INGENUE;  OB, 

u  Eeveillon,  don't  talk  so.    I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Must  I  not,  say  what  I  think  ?" 

"  No,  not  before  your  workmen." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  one  of  these  days  they  will  set  fire  to  the  factory." 

"  Well,  then,  on  that  day  I  shall  send  for  M.  Dubois  and  his 
troops,  and  he  shall  fire  on  them  as  he  did  on  the  rabble  at  the 
Pont  Neuf." 

"  The  devil !"  said  Retif,  "  Reveillon  is  not  as  much  in  the  move- 
ment as  I  thought  he  was,  and  if  he  had  been  at  the  Pont  Neuf  1" 

Here  Santerre  shouting  louder  than  ever,  made  Ketif  pause  in 
his  reflections. 

"  You  would  send  for  Dubois,  would  you  ?  Well,  then,  I  declare 
that,  on  that  day,  you  will  find  me  and  my  workmen  against  you." 

"Well,  we  shall  see." 

At  these  words,  the  door  was  abruptly  opened,  and  Santerre  and 
Reveillon  entered  the  sitting-room.  Santerre  was  very  red,  and 
Reveillon  very  pale. 

They  encountered,  as  they  entered,  the  three  young  girls,  and 
Retif,  who  pretended  not  to  have  heard  anything. 

"How  do  you  do,  Retif?"  said  Revillon. 

"Ah,  M.  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,"  said  M.  Santerre? 

"  Retif  bowed,  proud  of  being  known  to  Santerre. 

"  He  is  a  patriot  writer,  one  of  us,"  added  the  colossal  brewer. 

Again  Retif  bowed,  and  Santerre,  going  up  to  him,  took  him 
cordially  by  the  hand. 

Reveillon,  comprehending  that  all  must  have  been  heard,  was  some- 
what embarrassed. 

"  Did  you  hear  us  ?"  said  Santerre,  glad  to  renew  the  discussion, 
and  proud  of  his  patriotic  sentiments. 

"  We  could  scarcely  help  it,"  said  Mile.  Reveillon  ;  "  you  spoke 
too  loud." 

"That's  true,"  said  Santerre,  laughing  good-naturedly  ;  for  he  had 
already  forgotten  his  anger ;  "  but  Reveillon  is  so  behind  the  times. 
I  believe  he  worships  Henri  IV.  and  the  present  government  just 
as  much." 


THE   FIBST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  241 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Retif,  desirous  of  conciliating  M.  Santerre, 
with  whom  he  greatly  sympathised,  "there  was  hot  work  the 
other  night  near  His  Majesty's  statue." 

"  Oh,  were  you  there,  M.  Retif?"  said  Santerre. 

"  I  was  there  with  my  daughter,  and  had  great  trouble  in  getting 
away  at  all." 

"  There,  you  see,  Reveillon  1" 

«  Well,  Monsieur  Retif  and  his  daughter  were  there." 

"Well?" 

'•  Well,  these  are  not  rabble,  I  imagine." 

••  No,  and  they  are  alive,  are  they  not,  and  safe  ?  and  if  they  had 
been  killed,  it  would  h»re  been  their  own  fault  What  business 
had  they  there,  instead  of  being  at  home  ?" 

"  There's  nothing  like  your  peacable  lovers  of  order  for  violent 
argument,"  said  Santerre.  "  So  you  think  these  poor  citizens  of 
Paris  had  no  right  to  walk  about  Paris!  Well,  you  who  want  to 
become  one  of  the  municipal  authorities,  you  might  be  a  little 
more- indulgent,  I  think — a  little  more  patriotic." 

"  I  am  patriotic,"  said  Reveillon,  piqued  and  irritated  ;  "only  I 
do  not  approve  of  disorder  and  revolt,  because  they  destroy  con> 
merce." 

"  That's  it,"  said  Santerre,  with  the  quiet  and  ironical  tone  which 
distinguishes  French  humor,  "  let  us  make  a  revolution,  but  don't 
let  us  disturb  any  one." 

Retif  laughed ;  and  the  brewer,  feeling  he  had  an  ally,  turned 
towards  him,  and  said — 

"You  were  there;  they  say  there  were  three  hundred  people 
killed." 

"  Why  don't  you  say  three  thousand,  at  once  ?"  said  Reveillon, 
angrily. 

Santerre's  physiognomy  assumed  a  serious  dignity,  of  which  it 
scarcely  appeared  capable,  as  he  said — 

"  Suppose  there  were  but  three,  instead  of  three  hundred,  is  not 
the  life  of  three  citizens  worth  more  than  M.  de  Brienne's  wig  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Reveillon,  "  not  three  such  rebels,  that  you  chooso 
to  call  citizens— vagabonds,  who  wanted  to  pillage  and  steal,  and 
11 


242  INGBNTTE  J   OR, 

whom  Dubofe  was  right  to  shoot  down.  I  have  said  it,  and  I 
maintain  it." 

"  You  know,  very  well,  this  is  not  true ;  there  were  many, 
besides  vagabonds,  who  were  victims  of  this  violence  of  Dubois, 
•were  there  not,  M.  Retif?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?" 

"  Why,  you  say  you  were  there,  do  you  not?'^ 

Eetif,  who  felt  himself  in  a  difficult  position,  was  seized  with  a 
violent  cough. 

"  Really,"  said  Mile.  Reveillon,  "  were  there  any  respectable 
people?" 

"  Certainly ;  amongst  others,  the  wife  of  a  magistrate  was 
Bhot." 

"  Poor  woman !" 

"  A  clothier  of  the  Rue  de  la  Bonrdonnais." 

Retif  stopped  coughing,  and  said,  hastily — 

"  Several  very  respectable  people — I  have  heard  so  M.  Santerre, 
as  well  as  you." 

"  Not  only  respectable  people,"  said  Santerre,  who  was  not  to 
be  stopped,  "  but  some  of  the  aristocrats  suffered." 

"Really!" 

"  Yes ;  for  instance,  a  page  1" 

Ingenue  got  very  pale — Retif  very  red. 

"  Yes,  a  page  ;  one  of  the  pages  of  the  Count  d'Artois." 

"  Not  d'Artois ;  of  the  Count  de  Provence  ?"  said  Retif,  speaking 
loud,  so  as  to  hide  an  exclamation  from  Ingenue. 

"  I  heard  Artois,"  said  Santerre  ;  "  at  any  rate,  it  was  one  or 
the  other." 

"  Of  course,  and  probably  neither  one  nor  the  other ;  probably 
there  was  no  page  at  all." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Retif ;  "  I  heard  that  it  was  not  true." 

"  I  am  sure,  however,"  said  Santerre. 

"  How  do  you  know  better  than  any  one  else  ?" 

"  Because  this  page — for  he  was  a  page — was  carried,  being 
badly  wounded,  to  the  Ecuries  d'Artois,  and  there  confided  to  the 


THE   JTBST  DATS  OF   BLOOD.  243 

care  of  my  friend  Marat,  who  took  each  an  interest  in  the  young 
man  that  he  gave  him  up  his  own  room," 

••  Well,  that  proves  that  he  was  a  page,"  said  Retif,  speaking  to 
Sauterre ;  '< but" — replying  to  bis  daughter — "  but,  there  are  more 
than  a  hundred  pages  in  Paris." 

"Wounded?"  murmured  Ingenue,  inaodibly,  getting  very  pale, 
a  circumstance  unnoticed  by  all  but  the  young  girls,  who  notice 
everything. 

"  You  see,  then,  Dubois  was  wrong ;  for  ho  killed  innocent  peo- 
ple, besides  a  great  number  of  patriots  of  our  own  party ;  it  was  a 
crime,  sir." 

The  discussion  seemed  now  at  an  end,  and  Retif  thought  it  time 
to  explain  the  motive  of  his  visit. 

"  Your  visit  has  a  motive,  then,"  said  Reveillon.  "  I  was  in 
hopes  that  it  was  merely  to  come  and  see  us,  and,  I  hope,  to  dine 
with  us." 

••  No,  not  to-day.    I  came  to  ask  a  favor." 

"  A  favor !" 
,  «  You  have  not  forgotten  the  assault  of  the  other  evening  T" 

-  Certainly  not ;  my  workmen  say  they  settled  the  aristocrat 
pretty  welL  By-the-by,  tell  that  adventure  to  M.  Santerre." 

Retif  wished  for  nothing  better.  He  therefore  related  the 
whole  history,  from  its  yery  origin,  with  all  the  embellishments  his 
imagination  could  suggest  He  concluded  by  a  most  elaborate 
picture  of  Auger's  repentance  and  reform,  and  of  his  desire  for 
honest  employment 

The  recital  made  a  profound  impression  upon  Santerre. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  these  villains  of  princes !  the  man  served  him 
right  to  leave  him,"  exclaimed  Santerre. 

"  It  was  bravely  done,"  said  Retif. 

"  But  of  course  this  man  is  in  want  of  occupation — an  honest 
occupation  1" 

"  Of  course  ;  that  is  what  I  came  about  This  man  left  nil  the 
wages  of  iniquity,  abandoned  the  livery  of  servility,  and  now 
Becks  honest  employment  to  complete  his  inauguration  into  tho 
ranks  of  patriotism." 


244  INGENUE;  OR, 

"Bravo!  well  done!  he  interests  me — this  fine  fellow!"  said 
Santerre ;  "  I  will  provide  for  him." 

"Seriously?" 

"Most  seriously.  I  will  take  him  into  my  establishment  this 
very  day ;  it  will  make  quite  a  sensation  in  the  neighborhood." 

At  these  words,  Eeveillon  felt  Santerre  was  getting  the  better 
of  him;  and  remembering  the  threat  his  friend  had  made  in  the 
case  of  the  revolt  of  his  workmen,  he  deemed  it  expedient  to  take 
his  share  in  the  conversation. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  good  friend,"  said  he  ;  "  not  so  fast ;  I  mean 
to  take  Auger  myself.  I  have  the  greater  right." 

"  The  devil  you  have  1" 

"  Tes,  for  you  know  it  was  my  workmen  who  beat  him — my 
workmen  who  killed  his  companion ;  for  he  is  dead,  is  he  not?" 

"  Dead,"  said  Retif. 

"  The  devil !"  said  Santerre ;  "  then  I  understand  your  interest 
in  this  affair.  It  is  good  to  be  prepared,  and  to  keep  the  right 
people  in  a  good  temper!" — and  Santerre  laughed,  and -shaking 
hands  with  Retif  and  Reveillon,  left  the  house,  a  type  of  the  revo- 
lution in  which  he  was  destined  to  play  so  prominent  a  part. 

The  young  girls  took  Ingenue  into  their  room,  and  Retif  and 
Reveillon  remained  alone. 

"  Well,"  said  Retif,  " you  mean  to  take  Auger?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Reveillon,  in  a  very  bad  temper,  which  did 
not  promise  well  for  the  comfort  of  Monsieur  Auger;  "but  I 
must  find  out  what  he  can  do." 

Retif  saw  all  the  motives,  both  of  the  ill  temper  and  the  appa- 
rent generosity. 

"  It  will  not  be  a  bad  thing  for  you — first,  on  account  of  the 
popularity  it  will  obtain  for  you,  and  next,  because  Auger  has  a 
good  deal  of  education." 

.   "  Education !    Do  I  want  education  to  make  wall-paper,  pray, 
sirr 

I     "  Education  is  good  for  everything." 

I    "  Even  in  the  mixing  of  colors  ? — for  I  see  no  other  occupation 
for  your  protege." 


THE   FIKST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  245 

"  My  protege  !"  said  Rctif ;  "  my  dear  friend,  yon  are  going  too 
far.  What  has  Auger  done  to  merit  my  protection  ?" 

"You  know  that  best;  but  he  is  under  your  protection;  for, 
you  see,  he  gets  the  situation  through  you." 

"  That's  true." 

"Well,  then,  send  him  to  me,  and  we  will  see  what  he  can  do; 
but  I  advise  him  to  look  out,  and  behave  himself  more  than  well ; 
for  I  will  keep  a  mighty  tight  hand  on  him,  he  may  depend." 

1M if  thought  it  expedient  now  to  withdraw ;  for  he  saw  that 
his  friend's  temper  was  ruffled.  Going  into  the  adjoining  room,  he 
called  Ingenue. 

"  Come,  my  love,"  said  he,  "  let  us  go  and  tell  the  good  cure  of 
our  success." 

Ingenue  embraced  the  young  girls ;  and  taking  her  father's  arm, 
they  departed — Retif,  as  he  dosed  the  door,  heaving  a  sigh  of 
relief  and  exultation. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


RKTIF  talked  with  great  volubility,  as  he  went  along,  to  hia 
daughter,  about  Santerre,  the  great  popular  oracle  of  his  neigh- 
borhood, and  his  party,  and  already  a  conspicuous  personage  of 
the  revolutionary  movement.  Besides  innumerable  advantages  he 
saw  would  accrue  from  it,  he  intended,  now  he  had  seen  him,  to 
make  him  the  subject  of  one  of  bis  cotemporary  sketches,  disguis- 
ing the  name  under  some  ingenious  anagram. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  home,  Retif  wrote  to  the  cure,  inform- 
ing him  of  the  success  he  had  met  with  ;  and  the  good  priest, 
to  hear  all  the  details,  answered  it  by  coming,  in  person,  to  have 
a  chat  with  his  new  friend. 

He  found  Retif  and  his  daughter  preparing  to  sit  down  to  table. 
A  most  savory  soup  was  now  invitingly  smoking  before  them. 


246  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

"  Monsieur  le  cure,"  said  Retif,  after  the  usual  salutations,  "  will 
you  share  our  homely  repast?" 

"  It  will  be  a  great  honor  for  us,"  said  Ingenue,  in  her  gentlest 
tone, 

"A  great  pleasure  for  .me,  my  young  lady;  but  I  cannot  ac- 
cept  " 

"  Why,  it  is  not  a  fast  day,"  said  Eetif ;  "  and  though  our  din- 
ner is  humble "  <  .*v< 

"  Excellent,  I  am  sure,  by  the  perfume ;  but  I  have  dined." 

"  Dined !  oh,  Monsieur  le  cure !"  said  Ingenue,  playfully,  "  do  not 
tell  a  fib ;  you  know,  when  papa  came  to  you  yesterday,  it  was  half 
past  twelve,  and  you  had  not  dined  ;  that  is  not  the  true  excuse ; 
don't  tell  a  fib,  it  is  now  only  just  twelve  o'clock." 

"  Well,  I  won't  tell  a  fib,  then ;  I  have  not  dined,  it  is  true ; 
but  still  I  cannot  dine  with  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  then,  the  truth  is,  that  I  have  left  some  one  on  the 
stairs." 

"  Why  not  bring  him  in  with  you,  M.  le  Cure,"  said  Retif,  going 
towards  the  door. 

"No,  do  not  fetch  him,"  said  the  cure,  seizing  Retif 's  arm; 
"  though  the  person  who  waits  outside  is  full  of  gratitude  and 
joy." 

"  Hum !"  said  Retif,  reddening,  whilst  Ingenue  turned  away 
with  a  frown ;  "  am  I  to  understand  that  Auger  is  outside  ?" 

"  He  is,"  replied  the  cure,  looking  towards  Ingenue,  "  he  is." 

[ngenue  did  not  reply,  or  even  look  encouragingly  towards  the 
good-natured  priest,  much  to  his  discomfiture. 

"  The  devil !"  said  Retif ;  "  this  is  rather  awkward." 

"  Poor  man !  if  you  had  seen  his  joy  when  he  read  your  note — 
for  he  was  there  when  it  came — why  will  you  not  see  him  ?  Have 
you  not  forgiven  him  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  but ' 

"  Had  you  made  any  mental  reservations  when  you  forgave  him? 
Did  you  intend  never  to  see  him  ?" 

"  No,  certainly ;  but  still " 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  247 

"  This  is  weakness ;  if  you  have  forgiven,  why  should  yotx  not 
consent  to  see  this  unhappy  man  ?  it  is  the  only  consolation  now 
left  him." 

Retif  turned  towards  his  daughter;  Ingenue  spoke  not,  but 
remained  coldly  impassive.  The  curate,  however,  imagining  that 
silence  gives  consent,  rushed  to  the  door,  threw  it  open,  and  in  an 
instant  Auger  entered,  with  an  eager  step,  and  in  an  agony  of 
tears  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  Ingenue. 

The  sensitive  cure  began  to  weep,  too.  Retif  w*as  overpowered 
by  his  emotion.  Ingenue  alone  looked  coldly  on,  and  an  inde- 
scribable feeling  of  aversion  made  her  withdraw  from  the  touch  of 
this  apparently  penitent  man,  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

Auger  at  length  arose ;  and  then,  in  an  able  discourse,  well 
prepared  beforehand,  be  pleaded  his  own  cause,  and  explained  his 
own  miserable  position. 

Retif  listened  with  great  interest.  Experience  is  of  no  use  to 
men  of  imagination;  they  see  too  clearly  the  creation  of  their 
dreams  ever  to  understand  the  realities  of  life. 

Ingenue,  however,  was  unmoved;  her  instincts  were  unerring 
guides  ;  and,  with  her  clear  look  of  innocence,  she  forced  Auger  to 
lower  his  eyes;  for  he  stammered  each  time  he  encountered  her 
look. 

Auger  was  far  from  ill-looking;  his  greatest  defect  was  an 
absence  of  distinction ;  though  his  countenance  was  capable  of 
varied  expression.  He  had  fine  teeth  and  fine  hair ;  and,  although 
under  the  middle  size,  was  well-made,  and  dressed  invariably  with 
great  elegance  and  neatness. 

The  expression  of  his  month,  to  those  well  read  in  physiognomy, 
was  what  revealed  the  character  of  the  man  and  his  low  and 
grovelling  instincts  ;  but  poor  Ingenue  was  not  learned  in  the  ways 
of  the  world,  and  it  must  be  said  that  she  was  not  so  unfavorably 
impressed  by  Auger  at  the  end  of  his  visit  as  she  was  at  first. 

Auger  h;ul  livol  at  court,  and  had  acquired  some  of  the  court 
manuers,  and  strove  now  to  imitate  them,  as  he  described  the 
reductions  of  court  life  and  the  fascinations  of  the  Count  d'Artois. 
V 


248 


INGENUE  I    OR, 


As  Anger  proceeded,  his  auditors,  who  had  great  curiosity  about 
princes  and  courts,  listened  with  intense  interest. 

Ingenue  had  often  dreamed  of  the  splendor  and  delights  of  high 
life,  when  she  had  seen  the  brilliant  equipages  driving  past  her  ; 
and  Retif,  though  he  attacked,  on  principle,  royalty  and  aristocracy, 
knew  nothing  of  their  ways  of  living.  Auger  was  cunning  enough 
to  perceive  that  he  had  made  an  immense  progress-  in  the  esteem 
of  those  who;  a  few  hours  before,  had  looked  on  him  with  horror. 

Anger  judged  that  it  was  now  politic  to  withdraw  ;  and  leaving 
the  cure  and  his  new  friends  under  the  most  favorable  impression, 
with  a  cordial  salutation  to  Retif  and  a  profound  bow  to  Ingenue, 
he  took  his  leave,  having  obtained  permission  to  come  again, 
adroitly  leaving  the  cur6  behind  1iim,  to  expatiate  on  his  good 
qualities  and  his  good  intentions. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE    SURGEON   AND    HIS    PATIENT. 

WE  will  now  return  to  Christian,  whom  we  left,  being  car- 
ried, by  kind-hearted  bearers,  under  the  conduct  of  Danton,  to  the 
Ecuries  d'Artois. 

The  procession  was  preceded  by  three  or  four  torch-bearers,  who, 
telling  the  misfortune  of  the  youth  they  carried,  gathered  an 
enthusiastic  and  sympathizing  multitude  as  they  went  along,  until 
the  procession  became  quite  a  crowd,  so  that  the  porter  of  the 
Ecuries  d'Artois,  not  knowing  the  intention  of  these  numerous 
visitors,  closed  the  gates,  lest  their  object  might  be  hostile. 

No  sooner  did  he  ascertain  that  they  bore  one  of  the  pages  of 
the  prince,  than  the  gate  was  thrown  open,  and  the  poor  young 
man,  pale  from  loss  of  blood,  yet  looking  so  handsome  and  inter- 
esting, as  he  lay  on  the  litter,  his  long,  black  hair  floating  round 
his  fine  face,  was  quickly  admitted. 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  249 

At  Danton's  desire,  Marat  wag  instantly  sent  for.  Late  as  it 
was,  the  surgeon  was  not  yet  in  bed,  being  still  busily  engaged  in 
transcribing,  in  his  long,  angular  hand-writing,  his  political  novel. 

Marat  replied  to  the  summons,  by  desiring  that  the  patient  . 
should  be  placed  on  a  bed,  adding  that  he  would  come  there 
presently. 

The  messengers  withdrew  with  these  orders,  one  alone  remaining, 
whom  Marat  recognized  instantly  to  be  Dauton. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  my  friend  ?"  exclaimed  he.  "  I  had  a  presen- 
timent that  I  should  see  you  soon." 

"  Did  you  know  what  was  going  to  happen  this  evening  ?" 

"  I  don't  say  I  did  or  I  did  not ;  but  I  know  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  seem  to  know." 

"  We  have  had  hot  work,"  replied  Dauton,  "  and  I  bring  you 
a  sample  of  the  night's  doings." 

"  Yes,  a  man  who  has  been  wounded.    Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but  he  is  young,  he  is  handsome,  too ;  and 
I,  who  love  youth  and  beauty,  got  interested  in  him,  and  have 
brought  him  here." 

"  One  of  the  people,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  no  means ;  an  aristocrat,  from  the  crown  of  his  head 
to  the  soles  of  his  feet  You  will  detest  him,  I  know,  directly  yon 
see  him." 

"  Where  is  he  wounded?"  said  Marat,  with  a  sinister  smile. 

« In  the  thigh." 

"  Probably  the  bone  broken — probably  an  amputation  necessary. 
Your  handsome  young  aristocrat  will  have  to  go  about  with  a 
wooden  leg,"  said  Marat,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  My  legs  are  crooked, 
it  is  true,  but  they  are  better  than  none  at  all." 

"  A  wound  in  the  thigh  is,  then,  very  dangerous?" 

"  Generally — almost  invariably  so — and  likely  to  produce  lock- 
jaw." 

"  The  more  reason  for  going  quickly  to  him." 

"  I  am  going  directly,"  said  Marat,  rising  slowly  from  his  seat, 
and  reading  over  the  last  page  he  had  written,  as  he  stood ;  then, 

11* 


250  INGENUE  J   OB, 

leisurely  taking  a  case  of  instruments,  he  at  last  followed  Danton 
out  of  the  room. 

He  found  the  corridors  full  of  people,  all  anxious  to  witness  an 
operation,  as  Marat  appeared.  Dantqn  noticed  several  signs  of 
recognition  as  Marat  passed  through  the  crowd ;  and,  as  the  crowd 
left  the  hotel,  sent  away  by  the  servants  of  the  hotel,  these  signs 
were  repeated,  so  that  Danton  fully  comprehended  that  the  revolt 
of  the  evening  had  not  been  without  some  connivance  with  his 
friend. 

Marat,  being  now  in  the  room  where  the  patient  lay,  before 
proceeding  to  his  bed-side,  opened  his  case  of  instruments,  dis- 
playing them  with  the  ostentation  of  a  surgeon  who  delights  in  the 
cruelties  of  his  profession. 

Danton,  meantime,  drew  near  to  the  bed-side  of  the  young  suf- 
ferer, who  lay,  with  his  eyes  closed,  in  the  torpor  generally  attend- 
ant on  gun-shot  wounds. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  your  wound  is  very  serious,  and  will  probably 
entail  a  painful  operation.  Have  you  any  one  whom  you  would 
wish  to  be  apprised  of  your  situation  ?" 

"  I  have  a  mother,"  replied  the  young  man,  opening  his  eyes. 

"  Shall  I  go  to  her — shall  I  write  to  her — can  you  write  to  her 
yourself?" 

"  I  must  write  to  her  myself,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man ;  "  it 
would  alarm  her  unnecessarily ;  she  would  think  me  dead,  if  an- 
other were  to  write." 

Danton  took  out  his  memorandum  book,  and  gave  a  pencil  to 
the  young  man  ;  then  putting  his  arm  under  him,  he  assisted  him 
to  rise. 

With  great  effort  and  evident  pain,  he  hastily  wrote  a  few  lines, 
and  then  fell  back,  fainting  and  almost  exhausted,  on  his  pillow. 

Marat  now  drew  near  the  bed.  "  What  is  there  to  be  done 
here  ?"  said  he,  in  an  abrupt  tone. 

Christian  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Marat,  whose  appear- 
ance was  more  calculated  to  create  alarm  and  disgust,  than  to 
inspire  confidence.  He  stood  glowering  from  under  a  dirty  hand- 
kerchief he  had  tied  round  his  head,  his  large  and  not  scrupulously 


THE   FffiST   DAYS   Of   BLOOD.  251 

clean  hand,  his  sardonic  smile,  and  his  gruff  voice,  all  impelled  the 
young  man  to  withdraw  from  his  touch  as  far  as  he  could. 

Christian,  arresting  Marat's  hand  before  it  touched  him,  said,  in 
a  calm,  gentle  voice — 

"  Sir,  I  know  that  I  am  badly  wounded ;  still  I  would  wish  you 
not  to  consider  my  case  entirely  desperate,  as  I  should  wish  for  a 
consultation  before  anything  definite  was  decided  on." 

Marat  looked  round  abruptly  at  the  speaker ;  but  at  the  aspect 
of  that  pale,  yet  noble  countenance,  at  the  sight  of  that  clear, 
limpid  glance,  he  appeared  suddenly  impressed  with  profound  sur- 
prise  and  emotion.  As  he  gazed  on  him,  feelings  for  which  he 
could  not  account  took  possession  of  him ;  he  paused,  his  hand 
trembled,  his  voice  faltered. 

"  Do  you  understand  me?"  said  the  youth,  mistaking  his  hesita- 
tion for  a  want  of  knowledge  and  confidence. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Marat ;  "  but  do  you  think  I  want  to  hurt  you  ?" 

Christian  was  struck  at  the  change  of  tone  and  manner.  Look- 
ing at  the  instrument  he  hold  in  his  hand,  be  inquired — 

"  What  is  that  instrument?" 

44  A  probe,"  replied  the  surgeon,  hia  voice  still  more  gentle,  bis 
eyes  almost  tearful. 

"  I  thought  a  probe  was  usually  of  silver?" 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Marat ;  and  turning  away,  he  hastily  gathered 
together  the  instruments  he  had  brought,  and  left  the  room.  A. 
few  minutes  afterwards,  he  returned  with  a  case  of  magnificent 
instruments,  which  had  been  given  him  by  the  Count  d'Artois,  in 
return  for  a  book  he  had  dedicated  to  him.  He  now  approached 
the  bed  with  a  silver  probe  in  his  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  Christian,  "  when  I  spoke  of  a  consultation,  I  meant 
a  consultation  with  others — surgeons  of  equal  merit  and  renown 
with  yourself." 

"  I  have  no  renown,  sir,  only  skill  and  science,  at  your  service." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  either ;  but,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  you  must 
know  that  three  opinions  are  better  than  one." 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  Marat ;  "  we  have  here  in  the  neigh- 
V* 


252  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

borhood  two  surgeons  of  great  repute — Dr.  Louis  and  Dr.  Guillo- 
tin.  Shall  we  send  for  them  ?" 

"  If  you  please." 

"  If  they  should  difier  from  me " 

"  You  will  be  three ;  the  majority  shall  decide." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  desire,"  said  Marat,  gentle  and  submissive 
to  the  voice  of  his  patient,  which  appeared  to  exercise  a  strange 
influence  over  him. 

"  Now  that  you  are  convinced  that  nothing  shall  be  done  with- 
out a  consultation,"  said  Marat,  after  he  had  given  orders  to  an 
attendant  that  the  physicians  should  be  sent  for,  "  allow  me,  at 
least,  to  make  the  first  necessary  applications  to  the  wound." 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  said  Christian. 

"Albertine,  prepare  some  cold  water  and  some  bandages. 
Now,  sir,"  added  Marat,  "  gather  all  your  courage ;  I  am  about 
to  probe  the  wound." 

"  Is  it  a  very  painful  operation  ?"  said  Christian. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is ;  but  I  will  do  it-  as  lightly  as  possible,  be 
assured." 

"  Proceed,"  said  Christian  ;  "  I  am  prepared." 

As  the  probe  searched  the  wound,  Christian  turned  very  pale, 
though,  perhaps,  not  so  pale  as  Marat  himself. 

"  Do  not  restrain  yourself,"  said  Marat ;  "  your  cries  and  groans 
will  be  a  relief  to  you,  and  then,  as  long  as  you  are  silent,  I  may 
suppose  that  you  are  suffering  even  more  than  you  really  are." 

"  I  can  bear  my  sufferings,"  said  Christian  ;  "  though,  I  confess 
they  are  great." 

The  operation  lasted  about  half  a  minute.  "When  it  was  over, 
Marat  applied  a  bandage  of  cold  water  and  put  the  limb  in  an 
easy  position. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  wound  ?"  said  Christian. 

"  You  wanted  a  consultation,"  replied  Marat ;  "  let  us  wait  until 
4it  is  over,  to  give  an  opinion." 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  Christian,  exhausted  and  falling  back 
on  his  pillow. 


THE   F1KST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  253 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

THB   COXSCLTATION. 

THEY  had  not  long  to  wait  The  two  physicians,  Dr.  Louis  and 
Dr.  <  in illntin,  arrived  in  about  half  an  hour. 

Christian  received  them  with  a  gentle,  vet  sad  smile. 

"  Gentlemen,'.'  said  he,  "I  have  just  received  a  very  bad  wound 
in  the  emeute  of  this  evening ;  being  page  to  the  Count  d' Artois, 
I  had  myself  conducted  to  the  Ecuries  d'Artois,  knowing  that  I 
should  there  find  a  most  able  surgeon.  But,  before  putting  myself 
entirely  into  this  gentleman's  hands,  I  deemed  it  expedient  to  have 
a  consultation." 

Guillotin  and  Louis  bowed  to  Marat,  as  though  they  had  pre- 
viously met 

"  Let  us  proceed  to  examine  the  wound,"  said  Guillotin. 

"  Give  me  the  probe,"  said  Dr.  Louis. 

Christian  turned  pale  as  he  saw  the  painful  operation  about  to 
commence ;  he  looked  imploringly  towards  Marat 

"  It  is  useless  to  examine  the  wound  further ;  I  can  tell  you  the 
direction  taken  by  the  ball,  for  1  have  probed  the  wound." 

"  Let  us,  then,  adjourn  to  another  room." 

«  What  for  ?^'  said  Christian. 

"  In  order  not  to  alarm  you  unnecessarily,  by  technical  terms, 
which  yon  would  only  half  understand." 

fc  No  matter,  gentlemen ;  I  prefer  all  should  go  on  in  my  pre- 


"As  you  wish,  then;  it  shall  be  done,"  said  Dr.  Louis;  and 
turning  towards  Marat,  he  began  to  question  him  in  Latin. 

Marat  had  replied  to  the  first  questions  in  the  same  language, 
when  Christian  interrupted  them. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  being  a  Pole,  Latin  is  familiar  to  me, 
so  that  if  you  wish  me  not  to  understand  what  you  are  sayLvg, 


254  INGENUE  J    OR, 

you  must  make  use  of  another  language  ;  although  with  all  mod- 
ern languages  I  am  so  familiar,  that  you  will  find  it  difficult." 

"  Let  us,  then,  speak  French,"  said  Guillotin-,  turning  to  Marat. 
"  Make  your  report,  my  dear  colleague." 

But  Marat  was  standing  pale  and  trembling,  gazing  at  the 
youth ;  the  large  drops  of  perspiration  had  started  to  his  forehead, 
when  the  page  had  declared  that  he  was  a  Pole. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  recovering  himself  after  a  few  minutes, 
"  the  ball  has  penetrated  the  fleshy  part  of  the  thigh  ;  it  has  bro- 
ken the  bone,  and  now  lies  between  the  bone  and  the  muscles ;  I 
can  feel  it  with  the  probe." 

"  A  very  bad  wound,"  said  Dr.  Louis. 

"  Very,"  replied  Guillotin. 

"  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  it  is." 

"  Are  there  any  splinters  ?"  said  Guillotin. 

"  There  are,"  said  Marat.  "  I  brought  out  two  splinters  with 
the  probe." 

"  That,  too,  is  bad,"  said  Louis. 

"  There  is  no  hemorrhage,  however,  no  injury  to  the  arteries," 
Baid  Marat. 

"  Still,  the  bone  is  broken,"  said  Louis. 

"  Then,  there  is  nothing  left  but  amputation,"  said  Guillotin. 

"Amputation,  gentlemen,"  said  Marat,  in  great  agitation — 
"  amputation  for  a  simple  fracture !  surely,  that  is  a  terrible 
remedy !" 

"  I  think  it  most  urgent,"  said  Louis. 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  reasons  ?  I  should  be  happy  to  hear 
them,  from  the  lips  of  the  author  of  the  treaty  of  '  Gunshot 
Wounds.'" 

Dr.  Louis  then  proceeded,  in  a  clear  and  distinct  voice,  to 
describe  the  progress  of  the  wound,  showing  the  danger  of  lock- 
jaw and  of  mortification  if  the  limb  were  left  on. 

"  You  have  put  things  at  the  worst,"  said  Marat ;  "  the  patient 
is  young  and  vigorous.  I  hope  better  things." 

"  How  will  you  obviate  inflammation  ?  Do  you  intend  to  open 
the  wound  ?" 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  255 

"  No,  certainly ;  for  that  would  increase  the  inflammation  by 
increasing  the  wound."  '.-'  '-  '  '* 

"  Bell  says  the  wound  should  always  be  opened." 

"  But  lluntcr  differs  from  him."  . 

"  Well,  let  me  hear  how  you  will  combat  inflammation,  in  a 
young  and  vigorous  subject." 

"  Why,  as  he  is  young  and  vigorous,  we  will  bleed  him." 

"  Well,  that  will  reduce  the  local  inflammation  ;  but  the  general 
fever  T"  i 

"  By  cold  water."    • 

"  Cold  water !" 

"  Yes ;  I  have  found  cold  water  very  often  successful." 

"  And  the  splinters  T" 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  than  to  take  them  out  as 
fast  as  they  present  themselves." 

"  But  the  ball— the  ball,"  said  Louis. 

"  Yes ;  how  will  you  manage  that  ?"  said  Guillotin. 

"  The  ball  will  come  out  of  itaelf." 

"How  so TM 

"  The  suppuration  will  drive  it  to  the  surface." 

«  What!  leave  a  ball  in  the  body?" 

"  Yes ;  being  lead,  it  is  not  poisonous.' 

"  How !  you  think  the  ball  will  come  out?" 

"  I  have  seen  it  in  my  own  experience.  One  day,  being  in 
Poland,  I  went  out  shooting.  Not  being  a  good  shot,  or  having 
good  eyesight,  I  mistook  a  dog  for  a  wolf,  and  lodged  the  contents 
of  my  gun  in  his  ribs.  There  were  three  small  shot — one  I  ex- 
tracted, another  worked  its  way  out,  and  the  third  remained  in  the 
flesh,  where  it  never  did  any  harm." 

Dr.  Louis  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  said — 

"  This  is  the  result  of  your  personal  experience,  and  in  a  par- 
ticular case,  but  cannot  be  taken  as  an  example  to  be  followed, 
being  contrary  to  all  the  received  principles  of  surgery,  from  Am- 
broise  Pare  to  Petit." 

"  I  will  take  the  responsibility  on  myself,"  said  Marat 

«  Take  care,"  said  Dr.  Louia ;  "  surgery  has  made  great  progress. 


256  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

and  there  have  been  many  innovations ;  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
compromise  the  science  by  any  experiments." 

"  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  the  science ;  but  still  I  accept 
the  risk  and  responsibility." 

"  But,  suppose  the  patient  should  die,  how  will  you  reconcile  it 
to  your  conscience  ?" 

"  I  repeat,  that  I  accept  the  risk ;  and  I  also  think  that  surgery 
is  a  science  subject  to  two  laws — humanity  and  progress.  Now, 
both  these  laws  make  surgery  consist  in  something  more  than 
operations  ;  it  means  help  and  succor.  I  take  all  the  responsibility 
of  this  act,  of  which,  I  know,  all  the  temerity  rests  upon  me ;  and 
I  add  that,  before  long,  you  will  find  surgery  will  become  a  science 
instead  of  an  art,  and  will  cure  without  the  help  of  the  knife." 

"  If  the  wound  had  been  in  the  arm,  I  might,  perhaps,  have  seen 
some  chance,"  said  Louis. 

Marat  smiled  and  bowed. 

"  I  wish  you  success,"  said  Louis ;  "  but  you  must  allow  me  to 
say,  that  I  think  it  doubtful." 

The  two  consulting  physicians  now  proceeded  to  take  their 
leave,  having,  in  fact,  no  right  to  interfere  with  the  household  of 
the  Count  d'Artois,  which  naturally  belonged  to  the  surgeon 
attached  to  it. 

When  Marat  returned  to  the  bedside  of  his  patient,  he  found  his 
eyes  already  glowing  with  fever.  VV*^* 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  Christian,  extending  both  his  hands  to 
Marat,  "  what  thanks  do  I  not  owe  you,  even  if  I  should  die  under 
your  treatment.  I  would  rather  do  so,  than  under  the  barbarous 
treatment  of  the  regular  surgeons  and  their  knives." 

Marat  pressed  the  young  man's  hands  between  his  with  great 
emotion.  Recovering  himself,  however,*and  gazing  kindly  on  the 
young  man,  he  said — 

"  You  are  a  Pole ;  in  what  part  of  Poland  were  you  born  ?" 

"  In  Warsaw." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"  Seventeen." 

Marat  passed  his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  staggered  back. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  257 

«« Where  is  your  father  ?"  said  he,  in  a  voice  husky  with 
emotion. 

'•  I  never  knew  my  father,"  replied  the  youth ;  "  he  died  before 
I  was  born." 

Marat  remained  for  a  few  momenta  lost  in  thought ;  then  sud- 
denly rousing  himself,  he  began  preparing  a  potion  for  his  patient, 
which  appeared  to  calm  the  fever  and  irritation  of  the  nerves. 
Then  he  brought  an  apparatus  of  his  own  invention,  which,  being 
fixed  in  the  wall,  let  a  small  stream  of  cold  water  flow  continually 
on  the  wound,  which  was  covered  only  by  a  linen  bandage. 

The  youth  watched  him  with  great  curiosity ;  his  gentleness  and 
care  appeared  so  at  variance  with  his  first  behavior,  that  Christian 
was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  reason  of  the  change." 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do  with  the  ball  ?" 

"  Leave  it  to  itself,"  said  Marat ;  "  it  does  not  adhere  to  the 
bone;  but  is  merely  in  the  flesh ;  by  its  own  weight  it  will  work 
its  way  to  the  surface,  so  that  we  can  get  at  it  If  I  search  after 
it,  I  may  do  mischief—destroy,  for  instance,  one  of  those  thick 
accumulations  of  blood  which  beneficent  Nature — the  best  sur- 
geon of  us  all — uses  Very  often  to  stop  inward  hemorrhage." 

••  Do  as  you  please,"  said  Christian  ;  "  I  place  myself  entirely  in 
your  hands." 

"  Ah,  then  you  no  longer  fear  or  distrust  me  as  you  did  ?" 

"  I  have  entire  confidence  in  you ;  indeed,  I  never  doubted  your 
•kill;  but " 

••  Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Marat,  "  and  acknowledge  that  my 
appearance  is  not  very  prepossessing ;  in  this  undress,  too,  I  am  not 
likely  to  inspire  confidence ;  besides,  I  have  neither  fame  nor  repu- 
tation, but  I  have  studied  more  than  either  of  these  surgeons,  who 
are  so  much  looked  up  too.  Too  see,  I  knew  how  to  plead  your 
cause  and  save  your  limb." 

"  You  did  indeed,  my  dear  sir ;  but  I  must  confess  that  your 
manner  of  handling  those  frightful  instruments — your  rough  and 
cynical  way  of  speaking  when  first  you  came  to  me — frightened 
me  a  great  deal.  But  now  you  are  so  gentle ;  your  voice  haa 
changed,  your  very  looks  appear  transformed,  yon  are  as  good  to 


258  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

me  as  a  woman  would  be.  I  know  you  will  do  all  you  can  for  me, 
and  therefore  I  have  no  anxiety." 

Marat  turned  away ;  he  was  ashamed  of  his  emotion ;  a  gentle 
and  tender  feeling  was  so  foreign  to  his  nature,  that  it  appeared 
to  overpower  him. 

At  this  moment  hasty  steps  were  heard  along  the  corridor,  and 
the  voice  of  a  woman  trembling  with  emotion  was  heard,  exclaim- 
ing— 

"My,  son,  Christian,  where  are  you?" 

"My  mother!"  cried  Christian,  extending  his  arms  towards  the 
woman  who  now  rushed  in. 

Danton  stood  in  the  door-way,  whilst  Marat,  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  voice  of  the  mother  calling  on  her  son,  had  retreated  into 
a  corner,  where  he  stood  trembling  and  leaning  against  the  wall 
for  support 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

IN   WHICH    DANTON    BEGINS  TO  THINK  THAT   HARASS    NOVEL  WAS 
NOT   A   NOVEL,    BUT    A   TRUE    STORY. 

THE  poor  boy,  overpowered  at  once  by  fatigue  and  joy,  fainted 
in  the  arms  of  his  mother.  The  poor  mother  shrieked  loud  for 
help,  but  her  cries  brought  only  Danton  to  her  side,  who  reassured 
her  by  taking  Christian  gently  from  her  and  laying  him  down  on 
his  pillows,  where  he  soon  opened  his  eyes. 

Marat  gazed  on  this  group,  as  if  stupified.  The  mother  was  a 
woman  of  magnificent  stature  and  dignified  appearance ;  her  clear, 
blue  eye,  the  delicately  transparent  skin,  and  her  waving  fair  hair, 
declared  her  to  belong  to  the  aristocracy  of  the  north.  As  she 
bent  over  her  son,  the  richness  and  grace  of  her  form  was  fully 
displayed,  together  with  the  beautifully  arched  instep  and  the 
delicate  foot.  The  boy  opened  his  dark  eyes,  and  gazed  at  his 
mother  with  a  look  of  intense  love  and  gratitude. 

Then,  recovering  himself,  Christian,  holding  his  mother's  hands  in 


THE   FIBST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  259 

his,  related  to  her  how  the  accident  occured  to  him— how  Danton 
had  borne  him  from  the  crowd  to  the  Ecuries  d'Artois — and  how  he 
had  asked  for  a  consultation ;  "  having,"  said  he,  ••  most  ungratefully 
doubted  of  the  talents  of  the  surgeon  of  the  household."  Then  he 
described  the  decision  of  the  surgeons  with  regard  to  the  amputa- 
tion, and  the  manner  in  which  Marat  had  defended  him — terminal- 
ting  by  telling  his  mother  all  the  gentle  care  and  attention  he  had 
found  in  this  kind  friend,  as  he  called  him,  looking  round  for  him 
as  he  spoke. 

The  mother's  eyes  beamed  with  gratitude,  as,  turning  towards 
Danton,  she  exclaimed — 

"  Where !  where  is  the  kind  and  generous  doctor  ?  Do  bring  me 
to  him,  that  I  may  thank  him." 

Marat  never  moved  from  his  obscure  corner ;  but  Danton,  taking 
a  candle,  went  up  to  him,  and  raising  the  light  above  his  head 


••  Do  not  judge  of  him,  madam,  by  his  looks." 

The  lady  looked  eagerly  towards  Marat,  but  as  their  eyes  met, 
she  started  back,  and  Marat  would  have  fallen,  bad  he  not  leaned 
against  the  wall  Danton  understood  instantly  that  there  was  some 
terrible  secret  between  the  two,  into  which  none  but  themselves 
could  be  initiated. 

Marat  cast  his  eyes  down  on  the  ground,  and  his  bosom  heaved 
tumultuously ;  the  lady  remained  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Marat,  and 
her  hands  tightly  clasped  ;  then  suddenly  turning  towards  her  son, 
she  murmured — 

-Oh,  Ood!  can  it  be  possible!" 

Danton,  the  only  witness  of  this  scene,  moved  away.  As  for 
Christian,  he  had  already  sunk  into  a  profound  slumber. 

Marat  at  length  rousing  himself  from  a  profound  lethargy,  ap- 
proached the  bedside  of  the  patient.  The  lady  then  once  more 
looked  at  him,  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  as  though  to 
drive  away  the  unfortunate  thought,  and,  smiling,  began  to  express 
her  thanks  to  Marat,  who,  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  could  not  find  a 
word  to  say  in  reply. 

,     °  Sir,"  said  the  mother,  with  just  accent  enough  to  betray  her 
W 


260  INGENUK  ;    OR, 

foreign  origin;  "Sir,  my  son  and  myself  must  feel  eternally 
grateful." 

"I  merely  did  my  duty  to  this  young  man,"  said  Marat,  "as  I 
should  have  done  it  towards  any  one  else." 

"Nevertheless,  I  thank  you  deeply  for  your  care.  Can  I  now 
have  my  son  taken  home  ?" 

Marat  examined  the  patient,  now  lost  in  a  profound  slumber. 

"You  see  he  is  asleep." 

"But  when  he  wakes,  will  there  be  any  risk  in  moving  him?" 

"  Tes,  there  would  be  danger ;  besides,  your  son  is  very  well 
here." 

"  But  I  cannot  leave  him,"  exclaimed  the  mother,  looking  full 
at  Marat. 

Marat  could  not  stand  her  glance  ;  he  turned  away  his  eyes  from 
hers,  and  replied —  '..W 

"  I  will  give  up  the  whole  of  my  apartment  to  you,  madam. 
Your  son's  complete  restoration  to  health  depends  on  the  first  days 
and  on  perfect  quiet.  I  shall  come  twice  a  day  to  see  him,  at 
stated  hours,  madam :  so  that  you  can  either  remain  during  the 
tune,  or  retire,  as  you  please.  All  the  rest  of  the  time  you  will 
have  no  intrusion  to  dread." 

"  What  will  become  of  you,  in  the  mean  time  ?" 

"Oh,  pray  do  not  think  of  me,"  said  Marat,  in  a  very  humble 
tone. 

"  And  yet,  sir,  I  cannot  consent  to  drive  you  away  from  your 
home.  Where  will  you  go  during  the  time  that  we  are  here  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  shall  find  some  garret  in  the  stables,  I  have  no  doubt." 

The  lady  started  and  turned  pale  at  these  words. 

"  Or  perhaps,"  continued  Marat,  "  here  is  my  friend  M.  Canton, 
who  went,  I  think,  to  fetch  you." 

The  lady,  bowing  gracefully  to  Danton,  replied — 

"  He  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  give  me  house-room  as  long  as  you 
honor  me  by  staying  here  " 

"  Willingly,"  said  Danton,  considerably  interested  by  all  he  saw 
going  on  before  him. 

"  Then,"  said  Christian's  mother,  throwing  off  her  mantle  and 


THE   FIRST  DAYS  OP   BLOOD.  261 

seating  herself  by  the  bedside,  "I  will  remain.     Tell  me  now, 
doctor,  what  is  to  be  done  for  this  boy." 

••  Care  must  be  taken  not  to  arrest  the  flow  of  cold  water  on 
the  wound,  and  the  cooling  draughts  my  servant  will  prepare  for 
him  must  be  given  exactly." 

With  these  words,  Murat,  incapable  of  any  longer  enduring  the 
interview,  bowed  and  withdrew,  followed  by  Dauton.  He  entered 
an  adjoining  room,  and,  exchanging  his  dressing-gown  for  a  coat,' 
and  bis  night-cap  for  a  hat,  he  prepared  to  depart. 

u  Do  not  forget  your  manuscript,"  said  Danton ;  "  you  can 
write  at  home  easily." 

Marat  did  not  answer,  but  taking  Danton's  arm,  he  tremblingly 
crossed  the  room  in  which  lay  the  slumbering  patient,  and  left  the 
apartment 

In  the  corridor  Marat  found  numerous  inquirers  into  the  condi- 
tion of  his  patient,  for  whom  a  considerable  interest  was  now 
beginning  to  be  felt  The  surgeon  replied  hurriedly  and  abruptly, 
seemiigly  anxious  to  get  into  the  street ;  there,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  he  exclaimed — 

••  Oh,  Danton !  what  an  extraordinary  adventure !" 

«•  I  smell  a  Potoki  in  the  case — an  epilogue  to  our  novel" ' 

"  For  God's  sake  do  not  joke." 

"  I  thought  you  laughed  at  everything." 

"  That  woman,  with  her  proud  beauty,  so  tender  to  her  son,  so 
haughty  to  all  around — do  you  know  who  it  is  ?" 

"  Why,  I  almost  guess.    Is  it  Mile.  Olinska  ?"' 

« It  is." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?"  said  Danton,  once  more  trying  to  laugh. 

"  Danton,"  said  Marat,  impressively,  "  if  you  are  my  friend,  as  I 
feel  you  are,  do  not  joke  on  this  subject ;  spare  me,  I  entreat  you. 
All  the  emotions,  all  the  sufferings  of  my  life,  date  from  this  period 
of  my  youth.  Do  not  open  the  yet  tender  wound.  Treat  all  this 
not  like  a  vain  romance,  but  like  the  actual  reality;— a  tremendous 
and  overwhelming  reality — as  it  has  proved." 

"  I  will,"  said  Danton ;  "  but  first  I  must  confess  one  thing." 

"What  is  it?" 


262  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  I  confess,  then,  that  I  did  not  believe  in  anything  that  you  told 
me  to-day." 

"Ah!" 

"  You  never  imagined  I  could  have  been  in  love?"     &  +  .:. 

"  No,  I  did  not" 

"  Nor  that  I  had  been  young  ?" 

"  Not  that  you  had  been  young." 

"  Or  handsome  ?" 

"  Well,  St.  Thomas  was  not  more  incredulous  than  I." 

"  You  did  not,  then,  believe  that  once  I  had  been  courageous, 
hopeful,  happy — nay,  that  I  was  once  capable  of  being  loved  ?" 

"  But  now  I  believe  all  you  have  told  me,  Marat,"  said  Danton, 
affectionately. 

"How  foolish  is  it  for  any  one  to  open  his  heart  to  another — to 
pour  the  torrent  of  his  feelings  on  to  a  dry  and  sandy  soil !  Fool 
that  I  was ;  I  ought  to  have  shut  up  my  grief  in  my  own  heart. 
What  weakness  was  it,  which  made  me  yield  up  my  secrets  to 
one  who  scoffs  and  disbelieves !"  •» 

"  Come,  come,  Marat,  do  not  go  so  far.  I  never  scoffed,  and 
now  I  believe." 

"Well,  well,  if  you  did  not  believe  what  I  said  of  myself,  you  at 
least  see  that  I  did  not  exaggerate  her  magnificent  beauty." 

"  No,  indeed,  she  is  marvellously  beautiful,  and  I  pity  you,"  said 
Danton. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Danton,  bitterly  ;  "  thank  you  for  your  pity." 

"But,"  said  Danton,  "now  I  think  of  it " 

"Think  of  what?" 

"  Why,  of  the  age  of  that  young  man." 

"  Well;"  said  Marat,  smiling  significantly. 

"  Why,  he  cannot  be  more  than  seventeen." 

"  Certainly,  that  is  his  age."    . 

"  Then  it  is  probably  that " 

.   - "  What  is  probable  ?" 

"Why,  that  ke  is  your  son." 

"  How  could  I  have  a  son  as  handsome  as  he  is  ?  look  at  me." 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  263 

15 y  this  time  they  had  reached  the  residence  of  the  lawyer,  hav- 
ing crossed  the  whole  of  Paris  without  encountering  any  vestige  of 
the  tumult  of  the  evening,  excepting  the  smoking  ruins  of  the  corps 
de  garde  and  the  effigy  of  M.  de  Brienne. 

It  is  true  that  it  was  not  daylight,  or  they  would  have  seen  the 
stream  of  blood  which  ran  along  the  gutters  from  the  Place  de 
Greve  to  the  Rue  Dauphine. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

WHAT   WENT  ON   IN   MARAT'S   APARTMENT. 

M  KA  XTIME,  Christian,  laid  on  the  bed  where  Marat  had  so  ten- 
derly placed  him,  was  a  prey  to  mental  agony  far  greater  than  the 
physical  pain  he  endured. 

In  vain  did  his  mother  soothe  and  console  him  ;  in  vain  did  she 
try  to  cheer  him,  surrounding  him  with  every  care,  with  every 
proof  of  devotion  and  tenderness.  The  youth  turned  restlessly  to 
his  own  thoughts,  and  pondered  night  and  day  upon  his  love,  so 
abruptly  interrupted  by  his  unforeseen  accident. 

His  mother's  reserved  and  haughty  nature  was  little  given  to 
strong  feelings,  save  where  her  son  was  concerned,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  suspected  that  there  was  a  mental  ill  rankling 
in  her  son's  mind,  far  greater  than  the  one  which  afflicted  him  phy- 
sically. 

Then  the  poor  mother  would  feel  her  own  heart  sink  within  her 
as  she  watched  his  sufferings,  and  beheld  him  writhing  on  his 
feverish  bed,  and  each  day,  spite  of  all  the  care  bestowed  on  him, 
appearing  to  grow  worse. 

Then  this  cold  proud  nature  we  have  described,  and  which  was 

still  unchanged,  would  give  way  before  the  only  passion  it  had 

ever  known.     Kneeling  by  his  bedside,  she  would  pray  to  Heaven, 

and  then  implore  her  son  to  grow  calm.    The  visits  of  that  man, 

W* 


264  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

BO  profoundly  hated  and  despised,  were  anxiously  and  ardently 
looked  for.  She  felt  there  was  safety  in  his  presence ;  for  she  felt 
that  he  watched  the  boy  as  anxiously  as  she  did  herself. 

When  she  heard  Marat's  footstep  in  the  ante-room,  she  would 
run  to-  meet  him,  with  an  eagerness  that  might  have  deceived  any 
other  than  Marat ;  but  he  felt  that  the  heart  of  the  woman  was 
as  much  steeled  against  him  as  ever,  and  that  it  was  but  the  heart 
of  the  mother  that  softened  in  his  presence.  He  felt  convinced 
that  if  she  knew  that  his  blood'  would  restore  her  son  to  health, 
she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  shed  it  with  her  own  hand,  even 
to  the  last  drop. 

Marat  suffered  much  in  her  presence ;  he  who  believed  in  no- 
thing, not  even  in  many  principles  of  science  so  positive  to  others, 
believed  in  the  natural  affection  she  testified  for  her  son.  He 
shared  her  anxieties,  and  would  stand  perplexed  by  the  bedside  of 
his  young  patient,  trying  to  -liscover  whence  arose  the  restless  and 
feverish  symptoms,  each  daj  more  violent,  though  the  wound  was 
progressing  most  favorably. 

"  All  is  going  on  well,"  said  Marat ;  "  the  wound  is  healing,  the 
flesh  is  healthy,  the  bones  are  knitting  together  again  ;  nature  is 
doing  her  work  slowly,  but  surely.  We  can  do  no  more." 

"  Then  why,  if  the  inflammation  has  ceased,  is  there  still  fever  ? 
Why  is  my  son  so  restless  ?  Why  does  he  groan  and  moan  in  his 
sleep  ?" 

Marat  felt  the  young  man's  pulse  ;  it  beat  with  feverish  impetu- 
osity ;  he  turned  away  with  a  profound  sigh. 

"  I  know  not  what  to  say ;  there  is  some  unknown  cause  I  can- 
not fathom  ;  at  least,  I  cannot  explain." 

f  Why  cannot  you  explain  it  ?  do  you  hide  anything  from  me  ?" 
said  the  countess,  in  a  tone  revealing  all  the  profound  and  hidden 
passion  of  her  nature,  which  Marat  knew  so  well.  "  Speak,  sir,  if 
you  know  anything ;  speak,  I  entreat,  I  command  you." 

"  Well,  then,  madam,"  said  Marat,  "  your  son  has  something  on 
his  mind,  which  is  undoing  all  we  do  for  his  health  and  his  resto- 
ration to  life." 


THB   FIRST  DATS  Of  BLOOD. 

"Can  this  be  true,  Christian?"  said  the  countess,  turning  to 
her  son,  and  taking  his  horning  hand  in  hers. 

Christian  blushed  deeply,  and  turned  away  his  head ;  bat  he 
was  forced  to  reply. 

"  No,  mother,"  said  he,  in  a  faint  voice ;  "  for  once  our  good 
doctor  is  wrong." 

Marat  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  countess,  "  he  would  tell  me,  his  mother,  surely ; 
would  you  not,  Christian  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,  mother,"  replied  Christian,  kissing  the  hand 
which  still  clasped  his. 

"What  sorrow,  what  secret  sorrow  could  he  have?"  again 
inquired  the  countess,  turning  to  Marat. 

Marat  replied  not,  but  taking  up  his  hat,  prepared  to  take  his 
leave.  The  countess,  suddenly  recalled  to  herself  by  this  action, 
advanced  a  few  steps  towards  Marat,  and  said,  politely — 

"  I  am  very  anxious  about  Christian  on  his  own  account,  and 
grievedthat  his  situation  should  prolong  our  stay  Jiere,  and  keep 
you  out  of  your  own  home  so  long.  Is  it  not  greatly  inconvenient 
to  yoa  ?" 

«  Pray,  madam,  have  no  anxieties  for  me ;  it  matters  little  how 
I  live.  No  one  cares  for  me." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  replied  the  countess  :  "  it  matters  much 
both  to  my  son  and  myself." 

"  Oh,  madam,  if  you  knew  me  better,  you  would  know  that  I 
am  very  little  affected  by  outward  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  how  unlucky  it  is  that  my  son  cannot  be  removed." 

"  Are  you,  then,  dissatisfied,  madam,  at  the  way  in  which  I  treat 
your  son  ?"  said  Marat,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  anger. 

"  Oh,  sir,  how  can  you  think  me  so  unjust,  so  ungrateful ;  a 
father  could  not  take  better  care  of  his  son  than  you  do  of  Chris- 
tian." As  she  pronounced  these  words,  the  countess  suddenly 
.  paused,  and  turned  very  pale ;  but  almost  instantly  resuming  her 
control  over  herself,  she  added,  in  a  calm  voice,  "Not  for  an 
instant  have  I  entertained  the  idea  of  confiding  my  child  to  an- 
12 


268  INGENUE  J    OR, 

other  than  yourself;  I  merely  wished  he  could  be  moved,  that  he 
might  no  longer  put  you  to  inconvenience." 

"It  is  quite  possible  to  move  your  son,  madam;  only  his  life 
depends  on  the  turn  of  a  straw,  and  might  be  risked  by  the  trans- 
portation, however  near  or  cautiously  done." 

"  Then  of  course  I  would  not,  for  worlds,  attempt  it,"  said  the 
countess,  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  must  endure  it  for  forty  days  longer,"  said  Marat,  bitterly. 
There  was  a  moment's  pause ;  then  the  countess,  her  pale,  clear 
cheek  just  getting  tinged  with  a  faint  blush,  said,  hesitatingly,  to 
Marat— 

"  If  I  could  offer  any  compensation " 

Marat  started  as  though  a  serpent  had  bitten  him  ;  then,  with  a 
Bcowl  which  made  him  fearful  to  behold,  he  said — 

"  When  the  surgeon  takes  leave  of  his  patient,  madam,  you  can 
pay  him  according  to  the  usual  rate ;  there  is  a  tariff  for  these 
things  in  France,  madam." 

"But,"  said  the  countess,  who  felt  that  she  had  inflicted  a 
wound,  "  tell  me  how  and  where  you  live." 

"  Oh,"  said  Marat,  "  home  is  of  little  importance  to  me.    I  spend 
my  life  in  wandering  from  place  to  place." 
"  In  wandering  from  place  to  place  ?" 

"  It  is  even  all  the  better  for  me  that  I  should  not  be  at  home 
just  now." 
"Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  have  a  great  many  enemies." 
"  Indeed,"  said  the  countess,  in  a  tohe  which,  however,  did  not 
express  any  astonishment. 

"  Tes,  madam ;  I  am  important  enough  to  have  enemies,  which 
I  dare  say  you  think  very  sjngular.  I  displease  some  of  the  higher 
class,  by  applying  my  medical  science  .to  the  relief  of  the  poor.  I 
have  acquired,  too,  some  reputation  as  a  political  writer.  My 
articles  on  political  economy  are  much  read.  They  are  liberal, 
therefore  excite  -the  anger  of  the  aristocracy,  whilst  the  liberals 
accuse  me  of  aristocracy,  from  my  belonging  to  the  household  of 
the  prince.  So,  you  see,  I  am  hated  on  all  sides.  But,  madam, 


THE   FIBST  DAYS  OF  BLOOD.  267 

though  I  look  feeble  and  insignificant,  I  have  great  powers  of 
endurance,  and  am  capable  of  hatred  and  revenge.  I  have  suffered 
much,-  madam — suffered  horribly,  for  many  years.  Others  would 
have  died,  but  I  resisted,  and  am  here,  as  yon  see," 

"  You  have  suffered  much  iu  your  Iffe,  M.  Marat !"  said  the 
Countess,  in  the  most  unconcerned  manner  indeed ! 

"  Yes,  but  let  the  past  be  forgotten,"  replied  Marat,  in  an  abrupt 
tone  ;  "  I  merely  referred  to  it,  to  say  that  nothing  I  may  have  yet 
to  endure  can  approach  to  the  sufferings  of  the  past ;  therefore 
you  need  not  waste  your  pity  upon  me.  The  vagabond  life  I  lead, 
since  M.  Christian  is  here,  is  probably  the  life  I  am  henceforth 
destined  to  lead.  I  like  it,  for  I  hate  mankind.  I  IOTC  retirement, 
for  I  could  not  like  any  position  in  the  world  that  would  satisfy 
my  ambition.  I  hate  the  light  of  day,  the  bright  sunshine,  too,  as 
I  hate  society  and  the  world  ;  therefore  do  I  fly  them  all" 

"  Still,  unless  you  grow  blind,  you  cannot  avoid  the  light  of  day, 
or  the  sight  of  mankind,"  said  the  countess,  perfectly  unmoved. 

'•  The  owl,  madam,  is  not  blind,  yet  flies  from  light,  and  avoids 
all  other  birds.  See,  if  by  chance  he  ventures  forth  into  daylight, 
how  he  is  pursued  and  persecuted — how  all  set  upon  him.  No, 
madam,  he  remains  in  his  dark  retreat,  in  some  old  ruin  ;  there,  in- 
deed, if  any  come  to  attack  him,  he  knows  how  to  defend  himself." 

"  Sir,  I  can  but  pity  you.  Do  you,  then,  love  nothing  on 
earth?" 

"  Nothing,  madam." 

«  Again,  I  say  I  pity  you,"  said  the  countess,  in  a  tone  border- 
ing on  contempt  . 

Marat  was  getting  profoundly  irritated. 

••  Madam,"  said  he  quickly,  "  had  I  found  any  one  to  esteem  and 
respect,  I  would  have  loved  them." 

"  And  is  the  world  so  poor  as  not  to  contain  one  human  being 
worthy  of  your  respect  ari^  esteem  ?" 

"  I  have  never  found  a  being  who  could  inspire  me  with  either," 
said  Marat. 

The  countess  sighed,  and  turning  away,  took  her  accustomed 
seat  by  the  side  of  her  son. 


268  INGENUE;  OR, 

Marat,  after  looking  at  her  for  an  instant,  his  hand  on  the 
handle  of  the  door,  put  his  hat  on  his  head,  then  opening  it,  rushed 
out,  slamming  it  behind  him  with  a  degree. of  violence  little  in 
accordance  with  his  tender  precautions  for  his  young  patient. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

HOW   THE    COUNTESS   UNDERSTOOD   THE    PASSION   OF   LOVE. 

THE  countess  and  her  son  looked  at  each  other  with  astonish- 
ment for  some  minutes  after  Marat's  abrupt  departure. 

"  What  a  singular  man !"  exclaimed  the  countess,  at  length. 

"  Very  singular,  but  kind-hearted." 

"  Kind  !"  repeated  the  countess. 

"  Yes,  kind  at  least  to  us,  or  rather  to  me,"  said  Christian,  "  and 


"'What?  my  child." 

"  And  yet,  I  shah1  be  glad  to  be  away  from  here." 

"  Is  it  being  here  that  makes  you  unhappy  ?" 

"  I  am  not  unhappy,  mother,  dear." 

"  You  have  some  secret  sorrow  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  mother,"  replied  Christian,  turning  away  from  his 
mother's  scrutinizing  glance. 

There  was  a  pause ;  the  countess  examined  her  son,  as  he  lay 
with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  his  varying  cheek  so  still,  so  pensive. 

At  length  she  said,  abruptly — 

"  Are  you  in  love,  Christian  ?" 

"  In  love !"  replied  Christian,  in  a  tone  of  astonishment — "  in 
love !  no,  mother." 

"  I  have  been  told,"  continued  she,  "  that  love  often  mafces  peo- 
ple unhappy." 

This  phrase,  "  I  have  been  told,"  from  the  lips  of  a  woman  of 
two-and-thirty — from  a  woman  who  had  been  a  mother — made 
Christian  smile. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  £69 

"  However  that  may  be,"  said  the  countess,  not  heeding  her 
sou's  look,  ••  love,  I  imagine,  is  but  a  passing  sorrow,  such  as  we 
all  have  in  our  lives,  which  must  be  endured  as  long  as  it  lasts. 
Is  it  not  so,  Christian?"  *«  V 

"  I  suppose  so,'  mother." 

"  There  can,  after  all,  be  but  one  cause  of  sorrow  in  love." 

••  Bat  one,  mother !  and  what  may  that  be  ?"  said  Christian,  ex- 
amining, as  though  he  now  beheld  them  for  the  first  time,  the  calm 
beautiful  and  somewhat  stern  features  of  his  mother. 

"  Why,  the  fear  of  not  being  loved  in  return." 

"  That  is  what  yon  call  the  only  sorrow  ?" 

"  I  cannot  see  any  other." 

"  Explain  yourself,  mother  ;  your  definition  interests  me." 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  will  explain  to  you  my  ideas  of  love,  if 
that  amuses  you ;  only  keep  quiet  First  of  all,  you  must  admit, 
as  a  principle,  that  we  only  love  those  worthy  of  us." 

"  What  do  you  understand  by  worthy  of  us  ?" 

"  I  mean,  my  son,  those  born  as  we  have  been — in  a  high  rank, 
brought  up  in  superior  station,  thinking,  acting  and  feeling  differ- 
ently from  other  people — you  admit  this  ?" 

"  I  do,  to  a  certain  point,"  said  Christian. 

"  If  you  admit  this,  then,  it  is  but  natural  that  we  should  expect 
the  same  conditions  in  those  who  love  us.  Mind,  I  say,  love  us ; 
for  I  do  not  admit  that  we  ourselves  can  be  allowed  to  feel  love 
until  we  are  sure  that  all  these  conditions  are  fulfilled." 

"  Are  you  not  rather  absolute  and  exclusive  ?"  said  Christian. 

"  No ;  could  one  love  any  one  of  whom  one  was  ashamed  ?" 

"  Do  you  include  inequality  of  condition  in  your  objections  ?" 

'•  That  is  the  very  greatest  obstacle  of  all.  You  think  I  am  ex- 
clusive, or  full  of  the  prejudices  of  my  race.  But  how  do  they 
preserve  the  race  of  horses  for  which  our  country  is  famous — those 
( noble  hbunds  which  hunt  our  wolves — those  birds  which  sing  till 
death  ?  It  is  by  never  mixing  the  races." 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  are  talking  of  animals ;  but  we  are  be 
ings  endowed  with  intelligence  and  soul,  and  these  may  be  as 
great  in  a  plebeian  as  in  a  patrician." 


270  INGENUE;  OB, 

"  I  do  not  think  it,"  replied  the  proud  countess.  "  Listen  to  me, 
Christian.  I  once  had  a  magnificent  mare,  full-blooded,  thorough* 
bred — the  one  who  carried  me  seventy  leagues  in  two  days,  without 
suffering  from  it.  I  have  told  you  that  story,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  dear  mother." 

i  "  This  mare  enjoyed  entire  liberty ;  she  went  here  and  there,  over 
mountains  and  plains ;  coming,  however,  always  at  my  summons, 
docile  and  obedient  to  my  hand  and  voice.  She  crossed  her  noble 
blood  with  some  ignoble,  low-bred  stallion ;  her  colt  was  that 
wretched,  little,  spiritless  horse  Chocksko.  But  the  result  of  her 
alliance  with  the  war  charger  of  King  Stanislaue  was  a  noble 
horse,  full  of  fire  and  spirit,  thorough  bred  as  his  father  and 
mother.  Well,  Christian,  what  do  you  say  to  this  ?" 

"  I  am  thinking,  mother,  that  perhaps  God  did  create  a  superior 
race  of  men  as  well  as  of  animals,  but  may  there  not  be  some  of 
that  race  who  may  have  wandered  from  their  sphere,  and  who  are 
now  seeking  for  some  happy  combination,  which  shall  bring  them 
back  to  it?" 

"  Do  you  call  love  a  happy  combination  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  is  not  love  a  divine  essence,  infused  into  mankind 
alone  ?  Animals  have  appetites,  but  we  alone  have  sentiment  and 
love." 

" If  you  call  love  a  happy  combination,  you  take  away  from  it 
all  its  involuntary  attraction,  all  love  at  first  sight.  You  make 
love  the  mere  result  of  a  combination,  and  not  the  effect  of  chance 
and  circumstance;  therefore,  my  son,  you  see  your  theory  and 
mine  agree." 

"  Oh,  Heavens  !  no,  mother,  I  cannot  take  from  love  all  that  is 
noble  and  poetical — no,  mother ;  love  is  not  the  effect  of  choice ;  it 
is  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  inspired  by  God — the  most  sacred  feel- 
ing of  our  existence." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  it  is  but  one  feeling,  and  not  the  most  im- 
portant of  our  existence." 

"  Oh,  mother !"  said  Christian,  with  a  profound  sigh. 

"  To  you,  my  child,  to  whom  life  presents  itself  as  a  fertile  plain 
full  of  fruits  and  flowers,  love  can  be  but  a  happy  event.  You 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  271 

would  not  wantonly,  I  imagine,  go  from  your  path  to  seek  misfor 
tunes,  would  you  ?" 

"  No,  mother  ;  no,  certainly  not." 

"  I  ask  you  thia,  my  son,  because  I  see  you  are  unhappy  ;  I  asked 
you  if  you  were  in  iove,  because  you  appeared  unhappy;  and  I 
imagined  that,  young  and  timid,  you  might  have  given  way  to 
some  of  the  fanciful  theories  of.  the  present  day.  But,  Christian, 
love  to  you  ought  to  be  a  happiness,  and  not  a  suffering.  You 
belong  to  a  high  family ;  you  have  no  brother ;  you  are  rich,  and 
in  the  service  of  a  powerful  prince  If  it  is  a  princess  that  you 
love,  you  can  obtain  her ;  if  it  is  a  woman  of  low  extraction,  the 
word  love  ig  applied  to  both  passions.  Take  her  as  long  as  she  has 
the  art  of  pleasing  you,  and  when  she  no  longer  fills  your  heart, 
send  her  to  her  home  With  a  pension  worthy  of  the  name  you  bear. 
Why  need  love  make  you  unhappy  for  an  instant?" 

Christian  turned  so  pale  and  sighed  so  deeply,  that  his  mother 
grew  alarmed,  and  leaning  over  him  said — 

"What  is  it,  my  child?" 

"  Nothing,  mother ;  nothing ;  only  you  forget  you  are  not  in 
Poland,  where  a  lord  has  a  right  over  his  vassal.'' 

"  Oh,"  said  the  countess,  "  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life  to 
aee  you  walking  out  of  this  room." 

"  And  I  twenty  to  be  in  the  street,"  murmured  Christian,  almost 
inaudibly. 

The  countess  looked  at  her  son,  but  he  turned  away,  and  she  un- 
derstood that  he  had  a  secret  which  he  would  not  reveal. 

Christian  understood  that  to  confide  this  secret  to  his  mother, 
with  her  proud,  cold-hearted  prejudices,  was  useless.  His  love  for 
Ingenue  was  too  sacred  to  him  to  be  scoffed  at. 

Poor  Christian  !  what  anguish  did  he  not  endure  ! — alone,  ex- 
tended on  a  bed  of  suffering,  without  any  means  of  communicating 
with  Ingenue,  or  even  telling  her  the  cause  of  his  apparent  neglect 
He  had  a  firm  reliance  on  Ingenue's  truth,  and  also  on  the  mo- 
notony of  her  life. 

He  trusted  that  Retif  had  related  the  accident  which  had  befallen 
him.  He  knew  that  he  was  both  susceptible  and  imaginative,  and 
X 


272  IXGEXUE  ;    OR, 

trusted  that  his  misfortune  would  have  made  a  profound  impression 
on  him,  and  have  induced  him  to  forgive  his  clandestine  love  of  his 
daughter. 

He  was  young,'  full  of  hope,  and  love,  and  confidence  ;  but  im- 
patient at  a  long  separation  from  the  sweet,  tender  young  girl  who 
tilled  his  heart ;  and  that  it  was  which  made  him  restless,  feverish, 
and  unhappy. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

INGENUE    GOES    OUT   ALONE,    AND    MEETS   A    MAN   AND    A 
WOMAN. 

THE  accident  which  had  happened  to  Christian,  had  materially 
improved  the  condition  of  Ingenue.  Retif  was  well  aware  that 
even  if  Christian's  wound  should  not  prove  fatal,  it  would  at  least 
confine  him  to  his  bed  for  many  weeks.  He  therefore  relaxed  his 
jealous  watch  over  Ingenue,  and  left  her,  as  usual,  to  go  where  she 
pleased  and  to  do  as  she  liked. 

Retif,  thus  freed  from  Christian,  and  reconciled  to  his  enemy, 
Auger,  saw  nothing  that  threatened  either  his  daughter  or  himself. 
She  gladly  resumed  her  former  mode  of  life,  and  went  and  came 
whenever  she  pleased,  morning  and  evening,  in  rain  and  sunshine. 
She  was  a  perpetual  delight  to  the  passers,  as  she  went,  at  all 
hours,  with  the  unconscious  courage  of  innocence,  through  the 
Btreets. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  her  frequent  expeditions  had  a  double 
object ;  the  one,  open  and  apparent,  of  buying  the  provisions  of 
the  household — the  other,  secret  and  scarcely  confessed  even  to 
herself,  to  discover  Christian. 

Alas !  we  know  too  well  that  her  hopes  of  meeting  him  stood 
no  chance  of  being  speedily  realized ;  but  she,  who  knew  nothing 
and  had  only  the  unswerving  hope  of  trusting,  young  innocence,  did 
not  despair.  Every  morning,  reinspired  by  her  reflections  of  the 
night,  she  issued  forth,  saying  to  herself,  "  it  must  be  to-day !"  and 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   Ot   BLOOD.  213 

every  evening  she  returned,  solitary  and  sad,  yet  hoping  and' trust- 
ing still. 

Then,  recalling  what  she  had  heard,  of  a  page  of  the  Count 
d'Artois  having  been  wounded,  she  said  to  herself,  "  Alas  !  it  must 
have  been  Christian  I  Yes  1  He  is  now  lying  wounded,  dying — 
perhaps — dead  !  It  waa  of  him  that  M.  Santerre  spoke — this  is 
the  reason- he  has  not  returned."  And  then  she  wept  for  the 
death  of  Christian,  even  more  bitterly  than  she  had  wept  his  infi- 
delity. At  length,  Retif,  deeply  absorbed  as  he  was  in  a  new 
romance,  noticed  these  signs  of  grief,  and  set  himself  to  speculating 
upon  the  cause. 

It  happened  that,  on  the  same  day  of  Christian's  accident,  a 
squire  of  the  Count  de  Provence  had  been  wounded  on  the  Place 
de  Greve ;  and  a  newspaper,  containing  an  account  of  the  affair, 
having  fallen  into  Retif  s  hands,  he  hastened  with  it  to  his  daughter, 
to  convince  her  that  Christian  had  not  been  wounded,  but  that  it 
was  a  squire  of  the  Count  de  Provence. 

This  was  a  heavy  blow  to  poor  Ingenue ;  and  she  tried  to  con- 
vince herself  that  Christian  loved  her  no  more,  and  endeavored 
with  all  her  might  to  turn  her  love  for  him  to  hatred.  In  her 
simplicity,  she  determined  to  drive  Christian  from  her  thoughts, 
and  even  had  the  temerity  to  attempt  regarding  with  favor  two 
or  three  young  men  who  were  lavish  of  their  attentions  to  her. 

But  she  succeeded  very  indifferently  with  this.  Not  one  of 
them  but  compared  so  unfavorably  with  Christian,  whose  beauti- 
fnl  eyes  seemed  looking  into  her's  reproachfully,  and  whose  elegant 
and  distinguished  form  was  ever  before  her. 

She  therefore  was  forced  to  confess  to  herself  that,  although  she 
hated  Christian  more  and  more,  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
still  adored  him. 

Just  as  Ingenue  had  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  it  chanced  that 
Retif  was  invited  to  dine  with  a  number  of  authors  and  publish- 
ers ;  and,  knowing  that  the  tone  of  conversation  would  be  very 
likely  to  be  badly  suited  to  a  young  girl  of  seventeen,  he  vas 
delighted  when  Ingenue  begged  him  to  allow  her  to  remain  at 
home,  as  she  did  not  wish  to  attend  the  dinner. 
12* 


274  INGENUE  J    OR, 

At  three  o'clock — at  that  epoch  considered  a  very  late  hour  for 
dinner — Eetif  de  la  Bretonne  went  to  keep  his  appointment,  leav- 
ing Ingenue  at  home,  entirely  alone. 

This  was  exactly  what  she  desired. 

Tempted  by  the  absence  of  her  father,  she  had  determined  to 
avail  herself  of  this  opportunity  to  go  to  the .  hotel  of  the  Count 
d'Artois,  and  inquire  what  had  become  of  the  faithless  page. 

Waiting  until  four  o'clock — which,  at  the  latter  end  of  Novem- 
ber, in  Paris,  is  almost  dark — Ingenue  threw  a  mantle  over  'her 
shoulders,  and  hurried  out,  taking  her  way  along  the  quays,  towards 
the  Ecuries  of  the  prince,  which  her  friend  Mademoiselle  Bevillon 
had  one  day  pointed  out  to  her,  as  they  passed  them  in  a  carriage. 

A  fine  and  almost  imperceptible  rain  was  falling,  and  the  pave- 
ment was  already  wet  and  slippery.  'Ingenue  picked  her  way 
carefully,  and,  raising  her  brown  dress  with  her  left  hand,  revealed 
to  the  walls  of  the  houses,  close  to  which  she  modestly  passed,  a 
foot  and  ancle  of  exquisite  delicacy,  and  a  leg  of  divine  propor- 
tions. 

Suddenly,  as  she  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  Rue  des  Hiron- 
delles,  she  was  startled  at  the  appearance  of  a  man's  head  raised 
above  the  grating  of  a  basement,  from  the  bars  of  which  he  sus- 
tained himself  by  the  arms,  while  his  head  was  thrown  back,  like 
that  of  a  turtle  in  his  tub,  who  comes  every  now  and  then  to  the 
surface,  for  his  mouthful  of  air. 

Had  the  young  girl  had  the  curiosity  to  look  down  this  grating, 
she  would  have  seen  a  common  pine  table,  illuminated  by  a  tallow 
candle,  and  furnished  with  a  great  leaden  inkstand,  into  which  the 
pen,  still  panting  with  its  furious  journeys  across  the  paper,  had 
evidently  just  been  stuck,  while  on  a  large  wooden  chair,  by  the 
side  of  the  table,  lay  a  pile  of  large  and  portentous  looking  vol- 
umes, evidently  works  of  medicine  and  science. 

But  Ingenue  passed  so  rapidly,  that  she  saw  neither  the  cellar 
nor  the  man  who  had  half  issued  from  it. 

The  man,  however,  saw  her  well.  Her  little  foot  and  ancle 
were  within  an  inch  of  his  fingers,  which  clutched  the  bars  of  the 
grating,  and  her  dress  brushed  his  hair  and  face,  as  she  passed. 


DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  275 

She  might  oven  have  felt  his  hot  breath  through  her  silk  stockings, 
which,  although  a  little  old,  still  perfectly  fitted  her  exquisite 
limbs.  But,  preoccupied  with  her  own  sorrow,  and  half  frightened 
at  the  boldness  of  her  present  enterprise,  she  neither  saw  nor  felt 
anything  but  the  slippery  pavement,  and  hurried  on  with  a  beat* 
ing  heart. 

Not  so,  however,  the  man  who  had  seen  her  and  breathed  upon 
her  as  she  passed.  Dropping  himself  into  his  cave,  he  hastily  put 
on  a  dirty  dressing-gown,  over  his  soiled  and  rumpled  shirt ;  and, 
without  waiting  to  find  his  hat,  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair-cose 
that  led  into  an  alley  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  three  steps  at 
a  time,  and  in  a  moment  had  gained  the  street. 

Ingenue  had  gone  but  a  few  paces  from  the  grating,  when  this 
man  threw  himself  in  the  way.  The  poor  girl,  unacquaiuUil  with 
the  intricate  and  narrow  streets  of  this  quarter,  which  led  to  tlio 
river,  had  well-nigh  lost  herself,  and  was  anxiously  looking  to  dis- 
cover her  way.  • 

At  this  moment  she  encountered  the  inhabitant  of  the  basement ; 
but,  frightened  at  the  gleam  of  passion  that  burned  in  his  eye,  she 
turned  and  hastened  on,  not  knowing  whither  she  was  going. 

The  stranger  hurried  after  her ;  and,  as  she  heard  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps,  her  fears  redoubled,  and  she  fairly  flew  over  the 
ground,  as  the  man  addressed  some  unintelligible  words  to  her,  in 
a  low  voice. 

She  now  found  herself  on  the  quay,  but  in  a  place  entirely  un- 
known to  her ;  and,  bewildered  and  dismayed,  she  went  on  help- 
lessly,  and  without  the  least  knowledge  of  where  she  was  going — 
continually  turning  and  returning  npon  her  steps,  until  she  at  last 
found  herself  upon  the  spot  where  her  pursuer  had  first  encountered 
her.  He  had  followed  her  in  all  her  turnings,  and  now  stood 
before  her.  "With  a  last  effort  she  sprang  from  him,  and  flew 
along  the  street,  almost  feeling  the  hand  of  her  pursuer,  out- 
stretched to  seize  her. 

At  this  moment  she  passed  a  carriage,  standing  in  front  of  one 
of  those  miscellaneous  family  groceries,  with  which  Paris  abounds, 
and,  turning  suddenly  round  the  vehicle,  in  the  instinctive  desire 
X* 


276  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

of  avoiding  her  pursuer,  she  came  upon  a  human  form,  enveloped 
in  a  large  cloak,  and  carelessly  reclining  in  the  shadow  of  the  car- 
riage. 

The  young  girl  uttered  a  cry,  as  she  saw  herself  thus  apparently 
caught,  and  her  retreat  entirely  cut  off. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  child  ?"  said  the  cloaked  figure,  in  the 
soft  yet  firm  voice  of  a  woman,  whose  majestic  head  appeared  from 
the  hood  of  the  mantle,  and  who  now  came  towards  Ingenue. 

"  Oh,  thank  heaven !     You  are  a  woman !"  exclaimed  Ingenue. 

"  Yes,  child,"  said  the  unknown,  throwing  back  the  hood 
entirely  from  her  face,  and  discovering  a  fresh  and  youthful 
countenance,  full  of  sweetness  and  beauty.  "  Do  you  need  pro- 
tection ?" 

But  Ingenue,  unable  to  speak,  could  only  point  to  the  man  who 
had  pursued  her,  and  who  now,  seeing  the  two  women  together, 
had  planted  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  with  arms 
akimbo,  stood  grinning  at  them  with  a  most  diabolical  expression 
of  countenance. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  young  woman,  drawing  the  arm  of 
Ingenue  within  her  own ;  "  this  person  has  frightened  you,  has  he 
not?" 

Ingenue  made  a  sign  of  assent,  while  she  still  gazed  in  terror  at 
her  pursuer. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,"  said  her  protector,  "  he  is  so  terribly  ugly !" 
and  she  went  up  to  the  man,  to  examine  him  more  closely.  "  He 
is  certainly  hideous!"  she  continued,  meeting  steadily  the  fierce 
glance  of  the  man,  which  seemed  not  in  the  least  to  alarm  her. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  she,  as  a  subdued  growl  of  rage  escaped  the 
lips  of  the  inhabitant  of  the  cave;  "hideous,  indeed!"  and  she 
made  another  step  towards  him. 

"  My  extremely  ugly  friend,"  said  she,  "  who  are  you  ?  Are  you 
a  robber  ?  If  so,  I  have  a  pistol  at  your  service  ;"  and  she  drew  a 
pistol  from  her  pocket,  and  presented  -it  at  the  stranger. 

"  No,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  slightly  recoiling  from  the  muzzle 
of  the  pistol ;  "  I  am  merely  an  admirer  of  beautiful  women  like 
yourself." 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  277 

"Yon  ought  to  be  a  little  better  looking  yourself,  for  such  an 
occupation !"  said  the  young  woman. 

"  Good  looking  or  not,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  I  am,  perhaps, 
not  destitute  of  the  power  of  pleasing." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  »y  not  But  as  you  don't  happen  to  please  either 
of  us,  perhaps  you  would  hare  the  goodness  to  continue  on  your 
way. 

"  Not  till  I  have  had  a  kiss  from  one  or  the  other  of  you,"  said 
the  man  ;  "  if  it  were  only  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not  afraid  of 
your  pistol,  my  pretty  heroine  1" 

Ingenue  uttered  a  cry,  as  the  man  advanced  towards  them  ;  but 
her  protector,  quietly  putting  her  pistol  in  her  pocket,  awaited  the 
approach  of  the  man,  whose  bestial  countenance  gleamed  with  the 
disgusting  sensations  that  inspired  him.  Retreating  a  step,  she 
aimed  so  well-directed  and  so  heavy  a  blow  at  the  temples  of  the 
assailant,  that  he  fairly  staggered  under  it,  and  fell  across  the  stops 
of  the  carriage.  Then,  raising  himself,  he  seemed  to  discuss  the 
question  of  renewing  the  contest  But  finally  he  turned  to  depart, 
muttering,  as  he  went  off — 

"  Well !  it  is  very  certain  that  I  have  no  luck  with  the  women. 
It  is  as  bad  in  the  darkness  as  in  daylight !"  Then,  regaining  with 
long  strides  his  subterranean  abode,  he  dropped  down  the  staircase, 
and  throwing  himself  on  the  chair,  half  filled  with  books,  while  the 
glare  of  the  now  half-burnt  candle  lit  up  his  revolting  countenance, 
be  exclaimed — 

"  Since  God  has  not  made  me  handsome,  I  will  at  least  make 
myself  terrible  1" 


278  INGENUE  ;   OK, 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

THE   WOMAN   WHO   BOXED   MARAT'S   EARS. 

INGENUE  and  her  unknown  protector  remained  alone,  after  the 
disappearance  of  Marat — for  we  take  it  for  granted  that  the  reader 
has  already  recognised  our  troglodyte — our  dweller  in  a  cave — our 
man  of  the  pine  table  and  tallow  candle.  The  stranger,  tenderly 
supporting  the  trembling  and  almost  fainting  Ingenue  in  her  arms, 
led  her  into  the  little  shop  in  front  of  which  these  events  had  taken 
place.  As  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  who  was  at  supper  in  the  back 
room,  with  the  driver  of  the  carriage  at  the  door,  came  into  the 
front  shop,  with  a  light,  Ingenue  had  an  opportunity  of  examining 
at  her  leisure,  the  calm,  beautiful  and  commanding  features  of  her 
protector ! 

"  It  was  fortunate,"  she  said  to  Ingenue,  "  that  I  happened  to  be 
waiting  for  the  carriage  which  was  to  take  me  to  the  country." 

"  And  are  you,  then,  about  to  quit  Paris  ?"  inquired  Ingenue. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  I  belong  to  the  Provinces.  I  only 
came  to  Paris  to  attend  upon  an  old  relation,  who  died  yesterday. 
I  return  immediately  to  my  home  in  Normandy,  without  having 
seen  more  of  Paris  than  I  could  view  from  the  windows  of  this 
house,  which  are  now  closed,  like  the  eyes  of  those  who  sleep 
behind  them." 

"  Is  it  possible  !"  exclaimed  Ingenue,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  in  a  tone  of  almost  maternal  affec- 
tion— although  there  could  not  be  more  than  three  or  four  years 
difference  in  their  ages.  "  And  you,  my  child  ?" 

"  I  am  a  Parisian,  madam,"  said  Ingenue ;  "  I  have  never  quit- 
ted it  since  I  was  born." 

"  Where  were  you  going  ?"  inquired  the  elder  of  the  two  young 
women,  in  that  tone  of  command  which  was  evidently  habitual 
with  her,  and  which  she  could  not  wholly  conceal. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  279 

"  Oh,"  replied  Ingenue,  stammering,  "  I  was  only  going  home  !" 

"Do  you  live  far  from  here?" 

"  Inr  the  Rue  des  Bernardins." 

"  That  tells  me  nothing — I  do  not  know  where  is  the  Rue  des 
Bcrnanlitis.'' 

"  Alas !  nor  I  either !"  replied  Ingenue ;  "  I  had  lost  my  way. 
Where,  then,  am  I  ?" 

"  I  actually  have  not  the  remotest  idea.  But  I  can  ask  my 
landlady  here." 

"  If  you  would  be  so  kind !"  said  Ingenue. 

"  Madame !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  raising  her  voice,  "  I  wish 
to  know  the  street  and  the  quarter  in  which  we  are." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  replied  the  woman,  "  you  are  in  the  Rue  Ser- 
pente,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Paon." 

"  You  hear,  my  child.    But,  how  pale  you  are  1" 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  dreadfully  frightened !  But  you — how  cour- 
ageous you  are  I" 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing,"  replied  the  other ;  "  I  had  plenty  of 
help  within  call.  And  yet,"  she  added,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
and  half  speaking  to  herself,  "  I  believe  I  am  courageous." 

"  And  how  did  you  acquire  this  courage?" 

"  By  meditation." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  more  I  should  meditate,  the  more 
afraid  I  should  be," 

"  No — not  if  you  would  remember  that  God  has  given  strength 
to  the  good,  as  well  as  to  the  wicked,  and  the  good  have  the 
advantage  of  always  being  sustained  in  the  exercise  of  their 
strength,  by  the  sympathy  and  good  wishes  of  others." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  !"  said  Ingenue ;  "  but  a  man " 

"And  such  a  fright  1" 

"  You  saw  him,  then  ?" 

"  Yes — a  face  to  disgust  one." 

"  Oh,  to  frighten  one  to  death !" 

"  Not  at  all !  That  flattened  nose,  that  distorted  mouth,  those 
great  white  round  eyes,  those  slimy  lips — all  these  inspired  me 
with  disgust,  but  not  with  an  atom  of  fear !" 

I 


280  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

•  "  Oh,  what  a  hero  you  are,"  murmured  Ingenue,  regarding  her 
companion  with  admiration. 

"  Oh  1"  exclaimed  her  companion,  suddenly  stretching  out  her 
arms  as  if  she  were  inspired ;  "  I  feel  impelled  by  an  irresistible 
instinct  towards  that  man.  Instead  of  frightening  me,  he  only 
stimulates  my  hatred.  I  felt  an  indescribable  pleasure  in  braving 
him  to  his  teeth,  and  in  seeing  him  lower  his  glance  beneath  my 
gaze.  It  would  have  given  me  the  most  supreme  happiness  to 
have  killed  him.  A  presentiment  told  me  that  he  was  unfit  to 
live !" 

"  He  seemed  to  think  you  so  beautiful.  He  stood  for  some  mo- 
ments contemplating  you  in  silent  admiration." 

"  That  was  only  an  insult  the  more." 

"  Well,  I  only  know  that,  without  you,  T  should  have  died  with 
fear." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it.    How  long  has  he  been  following  yon  ?" 

"  Oh,  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  during  which  I  am  sure 
I  had  run  more  than  two  miles." 

"  But  why  did  you  not  call  for  assistance?" 

"  Oh,  I  had  not  courage  to  make  a  noise." 

"  What  a  set  of  cowards  you  Parisian  women  are !" 

"  Oh,  but  remember."  said  Ingenue,  deprecating  this  sweeping 
judgment  on  the  women  of  Paris ;  "  remember  that  all  women 
have  not  your  courage,  and  that  I  am  only  sixteen." 

"  Well,  I  am  scarcely  eighteen,"  replied  the  other ;  "  so,  you  see, 
the  difference  between  us  is  not  very  great." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Ingenue ;  "  you  ought,  therefore,  to  have 
been  almost  as  much  afraid  as  myself." 

"  No,  I  thank  you !"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  It  is  only  the  weak- 
ness of  women  that  gives  men  courage  to  insult  them.  Turn 
upon  them  boldly,  and  defend  yourself,  and  they  will  not  only  let 
you  alone,  but  entertain  for  you  the  profoundest  respect." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  you  say  quite  true ;  but  I " 

"  Well,  well — never  mind !  You  are  now  relieved  from  your 
persecutor.  Would  you  wish  me  to  procure  some  one  to  attend 
vou  home  ?" 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  281 

«  Oh,  no ;  I  could  not  think  of  it" 

"Bat  how  will  you  explain  your  frightened  appearance  at 
home  ?" 

"  Oh,  at  home !    There  is  only  my  father !" 

"  How  happy  you  are  to  have  a  father !  But  he  will  be  anxious 
at  your  returning  so  late?  He  knew  that  you  had  gone  out?" 

Ingenue,  in  presence  of  that  calm,  immutable  face,  could  not 
tell  a  falsehood.  She  replied,  therefore, 

"  No." 

This  "  no,"  although  uttered  in  a  tone  almost  of  supplication, 
made  the  elder  of  the  two  young  women  blush  with  anger. 

"  Ah  1"  said  she, '?  that  explains  everything !  Never  do  wrong, 
child,  and  then  you  will  see  how  courageous  you  will  become ! 
Had  it  been  with  your*father's  knowledge  that  you  had  been  out, 
you  would  have  been  far  more  brave." 

"Oh  1"  cried  Ingenue,  sinking  beneath  this  rebuke  ;  "  it  Is  true ! 
I  did  wrong,  and  I  ought  to  suffer  the  punishment !"  Then,  seeing 
the  other  recoil,  as  if  from  some  unworthy  thing,  she  seized  her 
hand,  and  exclaimed — 

"  Do  not  judge  me,  until  you  have  heard  all  t  It  is  now  ten 
days  that  I  have  heard  nothing  from  a  dear  friend — from  one 
whom  I  love.  There  have  been  many  scenes  of  violence  passing 
in  the  streets,  and  I  feared  that  he  had  been  killed,  or  at  least 
wounded." 

The  stranger  did  not  reply. 

"  Oh !"  cried  Ingenue  ;  "  how  can  I  ever  be  thankful  enough 
that  Providence  sent  you  to  protect  me  !" 

The  stranger  let  fall  her  steady,  clear  gaze  upon  the  face  of  the 
young  girl,  now  bathed  in  tears.  There  was  in  its  expression 
something  so  pure,  so  innocent,  so  chaste,  that  the  suspicions  of 
her  protector  were  at  once  dispelled ;  and,  taking  her  hand,  she 
pressed  it  warmly  between  her  own,  and  murmured,  in  a  gentle 
voice — 

"  My  dear  child!  How  happy  I  am  that  I  was  at  hand  to  help 
you!" 


282  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  Ah,  I  thank  you !"  said  Ingenue ;  "  I  only  waited  for  that. 
Now  I  must  leave  you." 

"  You  may  at  least  wait  until  I  get  the 'landlady  to  show  you 
your  way  home,"  said  the  stranger. 

The  hostess,  having  been  called,  gave  the  necessary  directions, 
when  the  stranger  exclaimed — 

"  Oh,  is  it  so  far  ?     You  will  never  reach  home  alone !" 

"  Oh,  yes  I  shall,"  replied  Ingenue ;  ••  I  will  run  all  the  way." 
Then,  suddenly  pausing  in  front  of  her  unknown  friend,  she  said — 

"  Will  you  permit  me,  mademoiselle,  to  embrace  you  ?" 

"Aha!"  said  the  other,  smiling;  "then  you  wish  to  follow  up 
the  designs  of  that  horrible  man !  Well,  come,  then !"  and  the 
two  young  women  embraced,  while  their  innocent  hearts  beat 
against  each  other. 

"  And  now,"  said  Ingenue,  "  I  have  but  one  more  favor  to  ask." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  My  name,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "  is  Ingenue.  Let  me  know 
yours,  that  I  may  remember  it  in  my  prayers.  I  am  the  daughter 
of  Retif  de  la  Bretonne." 

"What!  of  Retif,  the  author?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  he  has  great  talent." 

"  Have  you  not  read  his  works  ?" 

"  Not  any  of  them.    I  never  read  novels." 

"  And  may  I  ask  your  name  ?" 

"Mine?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle — that  I  may  try  to  imitate  your  courage 
and  your  virtues." 

"  They  call  me  Charlotte  Oorday,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  Come, 
embrace  me  once  more  !  You  see  the  carriage  is  ready — I  must 
go!" 

"  Charlotte  Corday !"  repeated  Ingenue ;  "  do  not  believe  that  I 
shall  ever  forget  that  name !" 


THE    FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  283 

CHAPTER    XLII. 

THE   LOVE   OF   VIRTUE   AND  THE   VIRTUE   OF   LOVE. 

INOKNCK,  notwithstanding  that  she  waited  to  see  her  new  friend 
fairly  on  her  way  before  she  would  quit  the  place,  still  got  home 
some  time  before  her  father.  When,  at  length,  he  came,  he  was 
not  to  say  druuk,  but  exceedingly  gay  and  lively. 

Wine  and  flattery  had  done  their  best  towards  intoxicating  the 
vain  author  ;  the  guests  had  vied  with  each  other  in  praising  his 
words,  especially  bis  last ;  Reveillon,  his  patron,  too,  had  conde- 
scended to  talk  to  him  as  a  friend  ;  and  Reveillon,  since  writing 
the  pamphlet  of  which  Rctif  was  the  author,  had  become  quite  a 
literary  character.  Retifs  publisher,  encouraged  by  the  success  he 
saw  he  was  producing,  ordered  another  work  of  him,  for  whu  h  he 
generously  proposed  to  pay  in  advance. 

All  this  had  greatly  excited  Retif ;  though  it  was  not  the  fashion, 
as  in  the  17th  century,  for  literary  men  to  get  intoxicated,  it  was 
allowable  for  them  to  enjoy  good  wine  when  they  got  it ;  and  the 
eighteenth  century  is  particularly  distinguished  for  the  attention  it 
gave  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  as  resulting  from  the  culinary 
art. 

Auger,  too,  had  been  the  subject  of  conversation  at  this  supper, 
and  Reveillon  had  been  loud  in  his  praise,  so  that  Rctif  returned 
home  at  about  ten  o'clock,  in  the  very  best  of  temper. 

Ingenue  was  waiting  for  him.  No  sooner  did  she  hear  his  voice 
and  his  step  on  the  stairs,  than,  feeling  she  had  been  guilty  of  dis- 
obedience, she  rushed  forward  to  meet  him  ;  and,  opening  the  door, 
received  him  with  a  most  affectionate  welcome. 

"  Well,  my  poor  child,"  said  Retif,  after  he  had  embraced  her, 
"  I  suppose  you  have  been  bored  to  death  during  my  absence.  Ah, 
my  pretty  one,  if  you  had  only  been  a  boy,  instead  of  a  girl,  I 
could  have  taken  you  every  where." 

"  Are  you  sorry,  then,  to  have  a  daughter,  dear  papa?" 
Y 


284  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  No,  my  child — a  young,  lovely,  and  sweet  girl,  like  you,  my 
Ingenue,  is  the  joy  of  the  house ;  but,  still,  how  convenient  it 
would  have  been  if  you  had  been  a  boy  1" 

"  Convenient !  in  what  way  ?" 

"Why,  we  should  never  have  had  to  spend  any  money  for 
dinner ;  for  you  know  I  can  always  dine  out,  if  I  please.  That 
would  have  been  a  great  economy — and  then  you  would  not  have 
had  to  soil  these  pretty  hands  with  ignoble  cooking  and  washing." 

"  But  then,  you  see,  father,  if  I  had  been  a  boy,  it  would  uot 
have  mattered  in  the  least  about  my  having  a  pretty  hand." 

"  Then  you  could  have  learned  to  set  up  type  ;  only  think,  you 
could  have  earned  five  francs  a  day ;  that  is,  ten  francs  between  us 
— three  thousand  six  hundred  francs  a  year,  without  reckoning 
what  I  get  paid  for  my  manuscripts,  which  might  perhaps  bring  it 
to  seven  or  eight  thousand." 

"  Seven  or  eight  thousand !"  said  Ingenue,  to  whom  the  sum 
appeared  fabulous. 

"  Why,  Mercier  makes  more  than  that,  and  I  am  getting  to  be 
quite  the  fashion.  Then,  you  know,  with  this  we  should  be  per- 
fectly happy." 

"  We  are  almost  perfectly  happy,"  said  Ingenue. 

"Almost  perfectly!"  replied  Eetif;  "What  originality  of 
expression,  my  child!  Tou  have  a  great  deal  of  my  genius. 
Almost  perfectly  happy !  Why,  child,  that  is  the  state  of  nearly 
everybody"  in  the  world.  The  statesman  desires  more  power,  and  is 
almost  perfectly  happy ;  the  prince  is  almost  perfectly  happy,  only 
he  wants  to  be  a  king ;  the  lover,  in  full  enjoyment  of  his  love,  is 
almost  perfectly  happy,  yet  he  wants  something  more.". 

Ingenue  looked  up  in  astonishment,  and  said,  "  What  more 
could  a  lover  want  than  love  ?" 

Retif  did  not  enlighten  her,  but  pursuing  the  tenor  of  his  thought, 
he  proceeded  in  his  usual  desultory  manner. 

"  All  we  want,  to  be  perfectly  happy,  my  child,  is  money.  Now. 
if  you  were  a  boy,  we  should  have  money,  and  all  would  be  right ; 
we  should  then  be  perfectly,  not  almost  perfectly  happy."  -  f 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  285 

"  Who  knows,"  replied  Ingenue,  "  that  we  might  not  then  want 
something  else  ?" 

"  True,  again,  my  bine-eyed  philosopher ;  if  you  were  a  boy,  you 
would  be  in  lore,  and  probably  ambitious." 

"  Oh,  no,  never,  I  am  sure." 

"In  lore,  then;  well  that  docs  not  last  so  long,  and  is  less 
dangerous.  By  the  bye,  talking  of  love,  we  did  nothing  else  but 
talk  of  love  this  evening." 

"  This  evening!  Why,  with  whom  could  you  talk  of  love  this 
evening?" 

"  With  M.  Reveillon." 

"  With  M.  Eeveillon,  father !  Why,  what  does  he  know  about 
love  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  perhaps  does  not  know  a  great  deal  about  love,  but  he 
is  very  fond  of  listening  to  stories  about  it,  and  pretending  that 
they  interest  him.  Well,  he  too  talked  about  love,  for  he  told  me 
a  great  deal  about  Auger." 

"What  Auger?" 

"  Do  you  know  more  than  one  Auger  ?" 

"  Oh,  our  Auger,  you  mean." 

"  Our  Anger !  See,  Ingenue,  how  noble  a  thing  it  is  to  forgive. 
Here  you  are,  calling  Auger  our  Auger— a  man  you  used  to  detest 
Reveillon  is  delighted  with  our  Auger." 

« Indeed  1" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  he  is  so  full  of  intelligence,  so  full  of  cleverness,  so 
industrious,  so  respectful.  Reveillon  had  already  advanced  him  ; 
he  says  he  is  fit  only  for  a  superior  position,  and  not  at  all  fit  for  a 
workman.  You  know  he  is  very  good  looking." 

"  Well,  nor  ill-looking,  nor  good-looking ;  nothing  particular,  I 
think,"  said  Ingenue. 

"  You  are  difficult  to  please,  my  young  lady.  Why,  the  fellow 
has  fine  eyes,  fine  teeth,  good  complexion,  is  well  made,  has  a  fine 
leg,  what  more  would  you  have?  Reveillon  and  his  daughters 
quite  admire  him." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.    He  does  honor  to  our  recommendation." 


286  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  He  does.    He  will  get  on ;  you  will  see  that,  child." 

"  I  dare  say  he  will,"  said  Ingenue,  with  the  most  complete 
indifference." 

"  Oh,  that  is  easy  to  see ;  he  knows  the  way ;  only  think.  You 
know  how  fond  the  girls  at  Reveillon's  are  of  flowers  and  of  their 
garden  in  general.  Well,  you  know  that  owing  to  the  preparations 
for  the  wedding  of  the  eldest  daughter,  they  have  had  no  time  to 
attend  to  the  garden." 

"  They  are  making  great  preparations  for  the  wedding,  I  know." 

"  Well,  Auger,  seeing  this,  says  nothing  ;  but  every  morning 
gets  up  with  the  larks,  and  sets  to  work  in  the  garden,  digging  and 
delving,  and  pruning  and  watering,  so  that  the  garden  never  was  in 
such  a  nourishing  state  as  it  is  now." 

"  Really !" 

"Reveillon  was  enchanted.  At  first  they  could  not  imagine 
who  took  all  this  trouble ;  but,  at  last,  they  watched,  and  they 
found  out,  though  Auger  did  all  he  could  to  hide  himself,  and  pre- 
tended not  to  know  any  thing  about  it." 

"  How  funny !" 

"  Yes,  very  funny ;  but  Reveillon  found  him  out,  and  going  up 
to  him  unawares,  says  to  him,  '  Hallo,  sir !  so  you  are  doing  other 
people's  work  by  stealth !  how  much  do  you  mean  to  charge  my 
daughters  ?' " 

"  Nothing,  M.  Reveillon.  Am  I  not  overpaid  for  all  I  do  ?  Do 
I  not  owe  you,  besides,  a  debt  of  gratitude.  I  can  never  do 
enough  for  your  daughters." 

"  Why  not ;  you  earn  your  wages,  I'm  sure." 

"But  are  not  your  daughters  the  friends  of  Mademoiselle 
Ingenue  ?" 

"  Her  best  friends." 

"  WeU,  then,  sir,  do  not  be  offended,  M.  Reveillon ;  but  I  am 
working  here  for  Mile.  Ingenue,  trying  to  please  her,  through  her 
friends.  Ah,  sir,  if  I  could  only  find  some  great  sacrifice  to  make, 
some  great  service  to  accomplish,  I  would  do  it  cheerfully,  even  at 
the  risk  of  my  life,  to  testify  my  gratitude  to  that  dear  and  vene- 
rated girl." 


THE    FIKST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  287 

"  Did  Auger  actually  say  this?"  said  Ingenue,  growing  serious 
and  looking  down." 

"  He  did,  my  child.  M.  Reveillon,  who  has  been  watching  him 
ever  since,  baa  discovered  that  Auger  writes  a  beautiful  hand  and 
keeps  accounts  like  a  mathematician;  so  he  has  given  him  the 
place  of  his  book-keeper.  Twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  and  his 
lodging—*  pretty  good  place." 

"  Very  good,  indeed." 

14  Not  as  good  as  the  one  he  left  with  the  prince,  as  Reveillon 
said  to  him — '  Anger,  the  house  and  the  table  are  neither  of  them 
as  grand  or  as  good  as  those  of  the  prince,  but  such  as  they  are, 
you  are  welcome  to  them.'  This  was  saying  a  great  deal  for 
Reveillon,  who,  you  know,  is  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  Auger,  taking 
Reveillon's  hand,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  full  of  emotion — '  Ah,  sir, 
better  is  the  dry  crust  of  the  honest  man  than  the  golden  pheasant 
of  crime.' " 

«  Hum !"  said  Ingenue,  « I  cannot  say  that  I  admire  the  pheasant 
of  crime." 

«  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  far-fetched.  Reveillon,  however,  thought 
it  sublime ;  and  though  not  strictly  in  good  taste,  I  assure  youf 
Ingenue,  the  phrase  is  calculated  to  be  popular,  and,  on  the  stage, 
would  produce  immense  effect.  The  dry  crust  of  the  honest  man 
is  far  better  than  the  golden  phearant  of  crime,"  repeated  Retif,  in 
an  emphatic  tone. 

During  this  speech,  Retif,  assisted  by  Ingenue,  had  been  ex- 
changing his  coat  for  a  dressing-gown,  of  sbmewhat  original  pat- 
tern, but  of  a  most  convenient  and  comfortable  form.  Retif,  feel- 
ing himself  at  his  ease,  continued  his  declamation — 

"Strange  vicissitude  of  human  life— strange  caprice  of  fate! 
Behold  here  him  who  was  our  bitterest  enemy,  our  persecutor,  a 
man  on  the  high  road  to  the  scaffold " 

"  That  is  going  a  great  way,  father.  I  don't  think  Auger,  with 
all  his  faults,  was  worthy  of  the  scaffold." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  Ignenue ;  but  then  you  know,  child,  I  am  a 
poet;  and  a  poet,  you  know,  is  allowed  some  exaggerations — 
•Pictoribus  at  quc  poetis,'  says  Horace.  Still,  this  man,  whom  you, 
Y* 


288  INGENUE;  on, 

perhaps,  as  a  gentle,  forgiving  girl,  would  not  have  sent  to  the 
scaffold,  but  who  I,  as  your  father,  in  my  offended  dignity  as  man 
and  father,  most  certainly  would — this  man,  I  say,  is  now  returned 
to  the  path  of  virtue  and  morality — oh,  Providence !  oh,  religion ! 
how  inscrutable  are  thy  ways !" 

Ingenue  looked  anxiously  at  her  father,  and  began  to  wish  he 
would  go  to  bed ;  but  Eetif  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the 
excitement  and  the  wine. 

"  Oh,  sublime  religion,  which  says — '  There  is  more  joy  over  him 
that  repenteth  than  over  twenty  just  men.'  Therefore,  you  see, 
Ingenue,  Auger  is  even  a  much  better  man  than  any  of  us,  and  to 
think  that  you  are  the  cause  of  all  this  1" 

"I,  father?" 

"  Of  course  you  are ;  for  is  not  love  the  cause  ?  Had  it  not  been 
for  love,  Auger  would  never  have  been  converted.  Love,  Ingenue, 
is  the  most  sublime  of  alt  reformers,  and  inspires  none  but  noble 
thoughts, 

"  Father,"  said  Ingenue,  reddening,  "  you  are  jesting." 

"  Jesting,  my  child  ;  I  am  telling  a  most  serious  truth.  It's  all 
very  well  for  that  old  pottering  curate,  and  for  my  most  opaque 
friend  Keveillon,  to  attribute  Auger's  conversion  to  conscience, 
religion  and  virtue.  I  know,  however,  that  neither  conscience, 
religion  nor  virtue  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Auger  was  con- 
verted, not  by  the  love  of  virtue,  but  by  the  virtue  of  love." 

With  these  words,  Retif,  satisfied  that  he  had  found  a  most 
effective  exit-speech,  wrapt  himself  in  his  old  dressing-gown,  and 
withdrew  to  his  room,  where  he  soon  fell  into  a  comfortable 
slumber. 

As  for  Ingenue,  she,  too>  sought  her  pillow,  but  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that,  before  she  slept,  the  thought  of  Auger's  devotion 
mingled  for  one  instant  with  the  remembrance  of  Christian's  unac- 
countable indifference. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  289 

CHAPTER    XLIII. 

AUGER  IX   LOVE. 

ALL  that  Ret  if  had  told  his  daughter  with  regard  to  Anger  was 
strictly  true. 

He  was,  zealous,  interesting,  and  perfectly  competent  in  all  he 
undertook.  Besides  both  ability  and  good  will,  he  had  great 
judgment,  and  was,  therefore,  able  to  get  through  a  great  deal  of 
work,  because  he  was  entirely  devoid  of  routine,  or  the  traditional 
delays  of  clerks  and  scribes. 

Reveillon,  accustomed  to  the  hum-drum  manner  of  proceeding 
of  his  two  old  clerks,  was  perfectly  bewildered  at  the  ravenous 
manner  in  which  his  new  clerk  devoured  all  the  work  of  the  office  ; 
and  the  clerks,  sharing  in  Reveillon's  astonishment,  though  not  in 
his  satisfaction,  lost  their  tempers  and  their  presence  of  mind,  and 
began  to  make  blunder  after  blunder. 

One  day  a  customer,  one  of  the  old  honest  customers  of  the 
house,  brought  back  a  sixty  franc  note  he  had  received  over  and 
above  the  change  due  to  him.  The  puzzled  old  cashier,  confounded 
by  the  rapid  doings  around  him,  had  made  this  mistake,  very  little 
to  the  satisfaction  of  his  patron. 

"I  shall  have  to  send  this  man  away,"  exclaimed  Reveillon^ 
"  spite  of  my  compassion  for  him  and  for  his  wife  and  family." 

Auger,  the  wily  Auger,  watched  well  all  his  opportunities. 
ITated  by  the  clerks,  esteemed  by  the  master,  adored  by  the 
daughters,  doing  the  work  of  six  ordinary  men,  he  was  humble, 
reserved  and  perfectly  unconscious  of  his  own  merit.  AVhon  he 
thought  the  impression  he  had  made  sufficiently  matured,  he  con- 
trived one  day  to  waylay  his  patron,  and  thus  to  accost  him — 

"  Ah,  M.  Reveillon,  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  reproach  me." 

"  Reproach  you,  my  good  fellow  1  for  what  ?" 

"  Why,  for  my  inattention." 

"  Inattention !  why,  do  you  not  do  the  work  of  ten  people  ?" 
13 


290  INGENUE;  OB, 

"  I  do  not  do  half  as  much  as  I  could,  my  dear  sir ;  and  for  that 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me !" 

"  Yes ;  I  am  too  absent ;  my  mind  is  too  pre-occupied." 

"  Are  you  unhappy,  then  ?" 

"  I  am." 

"  Is  it  money  you  want  ?" 

"  No ;  thanks  to  you,  I  have  plenty  of  money." 

"  Is  it  remorse  which  troubles  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  thanks  to  my  utter  change  of  life,  my  conscience  is  at 
rest." 

"What,  then,  is  it?" 

"I  know  not  how  to  confide  this  secret  to  you;  it  scarcely 
appears  worthy  of  your  attention." 

"  All  that  concerns  you  is  worthy  of  my  attention." 

"  "Well,  then,  sir,  my  absence  of  mind,  my  inattention,  my  sor- 
row, is  caused  by  love." 

"  By  love,  Auger !  aha !  so  you  are  in  love !  Btess  my  soul  I" 
continued  Reveillon.  "  Stop  a  minute ;  dear  me !  to  think  I  never 
guessed  it  before — you  are  in  love,  and  with  Ingenue !" 

"  You  have  guessed  it — with  Ingenue  it  is,  sir." 

"  The  devil !" 

"  I  see  you  are  shocked.  I  see  you  understand  the  insuperable 
barriers  between  us." 

"  No ;  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  The  horror  I  inspire  her  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  Ah  1  you  are  trying  to  inspire  me  with  hope." 

"  Well,  I  see  no  cause  of  despair." 

«  Oh,  sir  1" 

"  I  think  I  can  bring  this  about.  You  are  an  honest  man — a 
nian  full  of  talent,  with  a  good  situation  and  a  moderate  salary,  it 
is  true  ;  but  one  that  I  can  increase." 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't  increase  anything ;  but  try  and  persuade  Ingenue 
to  look  favorably  on  my  suit.  Only  let  her  allow  me  to  pass  my 


THE  FIRST  DAYS  OF  BLOOD.  291 

life  in  ministering  to  her  happiness ;  only  let  her  allow  me  'to  love 
her ;  let  her  try  to  forget  the  past ;  let  her  see  if  she  can  be 
induced  to  become  my  wife,  and  I  will  bless  her;  and  you,  M. 
lieveillon,  will  have  found  a  slave  devoted,  to  the  last  drop  of  his 
blood,  to-  you  and  to  your  interesta." 

Auger  was  BO  warm,  so  eloquent,  and  so  enthusiastic,  that 
Btiveillon  promised  to  do  all  in  his  power,  and  really  felt  himself 
invested  with  the  dignity  of  a  minister  plenipotentiary. 

"  So,"  said  he,  pompously,  "  the  height  of  your  ambition  is  to 
marry,  Mile.  Ingenue?" 

"  The  object  of  my  life  would  be  attained." 

"  One  would  think  Ingenue  were  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal, 
to  hear  you  talk,"  said  Beveillon,  somewhat  shocked  at  the  impor- 
tance attached  to  Mile.  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  ;  "  what  is  she,  after 
all?" 

"  What  is  she?  The  most  lovely,  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
distinguished,  the  most  angelic  !" 

"Hum I  that  is  enough.  Now  add,  the  most  dowerless,  and 
yon  will  have  said  all" 

"  She  is  worth  millions." 

"  Well,  you,  I  am  sure,  can  earn  them,  my  dear  Auger." 

"  I  feel  as  if,  inspired  by  such  a  love,  I  could ;  and  inspired,  too, 
by  my  interest  for  you." 

"  Well,  this  being  the  case,  let  me  advise  you  how  to  act." 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  what  I  want" 

"  In  the  first  place,  Auger,  we  must  remember  that  the  father 
appears  perfectly  well-dispoaed  towards  you.  You  must  pay  court 
to  him." 

"  Most  willingly." 

'  Retif  likes  to  be  flattered." 

"Would  he,  do  you  think,  accept  a  present  from  me?" 

Slf  delicately  offered;  then  he  would  accept  an  invitation  to 
dinner,  I  know." 

"  He  shall  have  it." 

"After  dinner,  you  know,  you  could  open  your  heart  to  him." 


292  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  I  should  never  dare  venture." 

"Nonsense!  Meantime,  I  would  take  care  that  Ingenue  was 
favorably  disposed  towards  you,  by  my  daughters." 

"  Oh,  sir !"  said  Auger,  joining  his  hands  as  though  overcome  by 
his  obligations. 

"  You  deserve  everything  I  may  be  able  to  do  for  you.  You 
are  a  faithful  servant,  and  you  shall  be  happy." 

Eeveillon  kept  his  word.  His  daughters  began  a  strong  attack 
upon  Ingenue,  Reveillon  on  Ketif,  which  attack  was  ably  seconded 
by  Auger  himself. 

The  result  of  all  these  united  efforts  was,  that  Retif  accepted  a 
watch,  and  an  invitation  to  dinner,  and  that  Ingenue,  assailed  by 
the  Eeveillon  girls,  was  talked  into  being  one  of  the  party. 


':'V":   CHAPTER    XLIV. 
•     CHRISTIAN'S    CONVALESC-ENCE. 

WHILST  this  conspiracy  was  going  on  against  his  happiness, 
Christian  was  slowly  recovering  from  the  effects  of  his  wounds. 

His  mother  never  left  him,  by  night  or  by  day.  The  Countess 
Olinska's  maternal  love,  like  every  other  sentiment,  was  an  imper- 
ative one,  and  not  to  be  thwarted.  Vainly  had  her  son  striven  to 
send  her  from  his  bed-side,  even  for  an  hour ;  she  had  always  refus- 
ed to  go,  and  by  dint  of  care,  had  at  length  succeeded  in  re-estab- 
lishing her  son's  bodily  health. 

She  did  not  perceive,  poor  woman,  that  her  son's  mind  was  in 
a  state  of  suffering  and  excitement,  which  made  the  hours  appear 
like  centuries.  In  vain  did  Christian  declare  that  the  forty  days 
prescribed  by  Marat  had  expired,  and  that  he  was  well,  that  he 
could  walk ;  his  mother  was  there,  irrevocably  insisting  on  the  very 
last  hour  of  the  last  twenty-four  insisted  on  by  the  surgeon. 
•*  At  length,  however,  this  hour  arrived,  and  Christian  was  at  last 


THE   FURST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  293 

allowed  to  take  that  first  step,  which,  ten  days  later,  was  to  lead 
him  towards  Ingenue.  Gently  and  timidly  leaning  on  bis  mother's 
arm,  he  put  his  foot  on  the  floor ;  but  presently,  feeling  that  no 
pain  followed  this  effort,  he  trod  more  boldly.  The  cure  was  com- 
plete— the  injured  limb  was  as  solid  as  the  other. 

In  another  few  days,  he  went  down  into  the  court-yard,  and 
gladly,  leaning  on  his  mother's  arm,  did  he  inhale  the  air  and  the 
sun-light  of  which  he  had  been  so  long  deprived. 

Christian,  it  was  evident  to  all,  as  well  as  to  himself,  was  com- 
pletely restored  to  health.  How  his  ieart  panted  to  be  at  liberty, 
and  to  rush  to  Ingenue,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  Twice  bad  he 
written  to  her  whilst  his  mother  slept ;  but  when  these  notes  were 
written,  he  knew  not  to  whom  to  confide  them,  by  whom  to  send 
them ;  for  neither  Marat  nor  his  housekeeper  inspired  him  with  any 
confidence. 

Soon  Christian  was  allowed  to  go  out ;  only  in  a  carriage,  and 
with  his  mother  by  his  side.  Still,  it  was  a  step  towards  liberty. 
The  carriage  of  course  drove  through  the  finest  thoroughfares 
much  to  Christian's  annoyance,  but  it  was  out  of  the  question  for 
him  to  say  to  his  mother's  aristocratic  coachman,  drive  through  the 
Rue  dcs  Bernardins. 

At  length  the  day  arrived  when  they  were  to  leave  Marat's 
apartment 

On  that  day  Marat,  resolved  to  recall  to  the  countess  the  remem- 
brance of  by-gone  days,  had  taken  great  pains  in  embellishing  his 
person,  disfigured  and  changed  beyond  all  recollection.  The 
countess  looked  at  him  without  remembering  that  she  ever  had 
seen  him  before,  and  tendered  him  her  warmest  thanks,  without 
any  allusion  to  the  past. 

Marat,  therefore,  leaned  towards  Christian,  and  as  he  gazed  at 
the  young  man,  tried  to  trace  in  him  some  resemblance  to  the  pre- 
ceptor of  the  countess  Cecile, 

"  You  are  admiring  the  result  of  your  skill,  I  see,"  said  the 
countess. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Marat,  "  I  am  admiring  my  own  work." 

"  You  arc  right,  sir ;  your  patient  does  you  much  credit." 


294  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  Ah,  madam,  for  that  young  man  I  could  have  performed  a 
greater  miracle,  if  necessary." 

Christian  bowed  to  the  doctor  somewhat  haughtily,  for  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  surgeon's  looks  and  words  were  somewhat  familiar. 

The  countess  pretended  to  see  nothing  extraordinary  in  either 
her  son's  or  Marat's  manner ;  turning  to  the  latter  she  said — 

"  Now  that  we  have  expressed  our  gratitude,  allow  us  to  pay 
our  debts." 

Marat  colored  deeply. 

"  In  money  ?"  said  he  ;  "  do  you  desire  to  humble  me  ?" 

"  Not  by  any  means.  I  cannot  see  in  what  way  I.  humble  you 
when  I  pay  you  what  is  justly  your  due." 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Marat." 

"  Ay,  madam,  Marat  is  my  name.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  remem- 
ber it ;  I  thought  I  should  have  to  recall  it  to  you." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  sir,"  said  the  countess,  "  whether  the  know- 
ledge of  your  name  imposes  any  obligations  upon  me  ?" 

Marat  was  astounded ;  the  countess  stood  before  him,  calm,  digni- 
fied and  erect,  without  one  symptom  of  emotion. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  "accept  my  best  thanks  for  your  care  and  for 
your  hospitality.  Believe  me,  sir,  if  you  yourself  had  not  said  that 
it  endangered  my  son's  life  to  move  him,  we  should  not  have 
remained  one  hour  longer  under  your  roof." 

These  words  were  uttered  with  such  chilling  politeness  that 
Marat  felt  that  they  bordered  on  insult ;  yet  there  was  such  an 
exquisite,  high-bred  tone  about  her  whole  manner,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  resent  it,  or  for  him,  the  plebeian,  to  reply  to  it  as 
he  wished. 

He  glared  at  the  countess,  and  watched  her  as  she  placed  a 
purse  full  of  gold  on  the  table,  his  heart  swelling  with  rage  and 
agony,  yet  totally  at  a  loss  how  to  manifest  it. 

"  Come,  Christian,"  said  the  countess,  curtesying  to  Marat  and 
passing  before  him. 

Christian  advanced  towards  Marat,  but  the  countess  perceiving 
Marat's  intention  of  embracing  the  young  man,  seized  her  son  by 


.    t  THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  295 

the  arm,  and,  at  the  risk  of  making  him  fall,  pulled  him  towards 
the  .1.  .ur. 

Marat  was  transfixed  with  rage ;  he  slammed  the  door  after 
them,  then  going  up  to  the  table,  where  the  countess  had  deposited 
the  puree,  he  seized  hold  of  it  and  scattered  the  contents  all  about 
the  floor. 

"Aha!  this  is  the  way  I  am  to  be  served,  is  it?  Woman, 
beware !  woman,  whose  heart  is  as  cold  as  your  own  wilds,  beware ! 
I  will  be  avenged  on  you  and  on  your  boy,  aristocrats  that  you 
are — aristocrats  that  shall  fare  no  better  than  the  rest !" 

With  this,  Marat  shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  whilst  Albertine 
diligently  set  to  work  to  pick  up  the  scattered  gold,  returning 
ninety  pieces  to  Marat,  fnd  putting  ten  in  her  own  pocket 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

WHAT   WAS   GOIJTG   OX   ALL  THIS   TIME    IK  THE   RUE   DBS   BER- 
NAROIXS. 

THE  inexplicable  silence,  so  prolonged,  so  unaccountable,  which 
Christian  continued  to  observe,  was  producing  the  very  worst  effect 
in  the  Rue  des  Bernardins. 

The  first  time  Reveillon  met  Retif,  he  took  him  aside  and  spoke 
to  him  about  this  alliance. 

Retif  had  but  one  objection  to  make— that  was  the  insufficient 
income  of  the  intended.  Reveillon,  however,  settled  that  point,  by 
offering  to  give  the  bridegroom  two  thousand  francs/  per  annum 
from  the  day  of  his  marriage,  upon  which  Auger  declared  that  he 
would  reside  with  his  father-in-law,  and  that  the  income  should  be 
enjoyed  by  all,  as  one  family. 

Ingenue  heard  all  this  talked  of  and  discussed,  in  a  sort  of 
bewildered  stupor  ;  every  one  talked  of  her  marriage  as  of  a  settled 
thing  ;  no  one  ever  consulted  her,  or  appeared  to  expect  that  she 
should  give  an  opinion  ;  so  that  all  she  could  do  was  to  remain 


296  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

Bilent  and  abstracted,  allowing  herself  to  float  down  the  current  of 
life  without  opposition  or  comment,  trusting  to  chance  or  some 
unforseen  circumstance  to  come  to  her,  aid. 

Her  father,  when  they  had  formerly  spoken  of  Christian,  had 
allowed  her  one  month  to  decide  on  the  estimation  in  which  she 
was  to  hold  Christian's  love.  The  month  had  elapsed,  and  Chris- 
tian had  not  come  nor  had  he  sent  a  single  token  of  remembrance 
to  show  that  he  had  not  forgotten  her. 

Still  she  hoped,  but  in  her  secret  heart  she  began  to  doubt, 
though,  as  the  doubt  dawned  in  her  heart,  she  strove  to  banish  it 
as  a  crime — still,  come  it  would,  and  each  day  with  more  consis- 
tency. When  her  marriage  with  Auger  was  first  discussed,  Chris- 
tian had  been  three  weeks  away — it  was  told  her  as  a  settled  thing, 
not  as  a  matter  to  be  discussed,  and  so  she  did  not  discuss  it,  but 
merely  asked  for  time. 

Now  Ingenue  was  a  girl  of  spirit,  who  loved  Christian  with  the 
ardor  of  a  first  love ;  but  she  was  a  girl  deeply  to  resent  having 
been  duped  or  deceived,  and  capable  of  avenging  herself.  If 
Christian  had  been  dead,  she  would  have  been  faithful  to  his 
memory ;  absent,  and  sure  of  his  fidelity  and  love,  she  would  have 
resisted  to  the  last  all  attempts  to  separate  them ;  but  if  Christian 
had  but  trifled  with  her,  if  Christian  had  forgotten  her,  was  it  not 
unworthy  of  her,  base,  to  pine  and  die  for  him  ? 

Ingenue  hesitated — at  last  she  asked  for  time,  for  one  month  ;  aiid 
Eeveillon,  who  had  expected  sighs,  tears  and  resistance,  granted, 
joyfully,  this  short  delay.  But  Retif,  who  knew  precisely  how 
matters  stood  with  regard  to  Christian,  made  a  very  wry  face  when 
he  heard  this  promise  given,  and  strove  to  grant  but  a  fortnight 
instead  of  a  month. 

The  month,  however,  passed  without  any  signs  of  Christian. 
During  this  month,  everything  was  arranged,  the  bans  were  pub- 
lished, and  even  the  wedding  presents  bought,  as  though  Ingenue 
had  been  sure  to  give  her  consent.  Auger,  during  this  time  of 
probation,  made  such  progress  in  the  good  opinion  of  Reveillon, 
that  had  Auger  asked  for  ten  thousand  francs,  he  would  have 
obtained  them. 


THE   F1KST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  297 

On  the  morning  of  the  thirtieth  day,  on  her  return  from  early 
mass,  where  she  had  been  to  pray  for  Christian's  return,  Ingenue 
found  her  room  filled  with  flowers,  and  her  bed  and  the  table  in 
her  room  covered  with  wedding  presents  and  bridal  paraphernalia. 
At  this  sight,  Ingenue  burst  into  tears — all  was  over ;  she  had  no 
longer  any  excuse  for  refusing  Auger;  Christian  was  lost  to  her 
forever. 

Auger  was  soon  by  her  side,  so  radiantly  yet  so  timidly  happy, 
so  humbly  grateful  that  she  could  not  feel  angry  with  him ;  all  the 
ReveilJons  were  so  interested  in  him,  and  poor  old  Retif  himself 
appeared  so  happy,  that  Ingenue  knew  not  what  to  do  or  say.  At 
length,  to  leave  one  more  chance  to  Christian,  she  asked  for  another 
delay. 

A  fortnight — how  Retif  writhed  as  this  too  was  granted.  Chris- 
tian must  be  very  nearly  in  a  state  of  convalescence,  and  Retif  felt 
that  each  hour  of  this  delay  would  be  an  hour  of  torture  to  him ; 
however,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  If  Ingenue  could  only  be  fast 
married,  he  cared  not  if  Christian  should  return  the  very  next  day ; 
he  knew  too  well  the  purity  of  Ingenue's  heart,  and  her  high  prin- 
ciple, to  dread  anything  from  his  presence,  if  once  she  were  a  wife. 

Ingenue  resolved,  after  this  fortnight,  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
become  Auger's  wife.  A  feeling  of  resentment  was  beginning  to 
arise  in  her  mind  against  her  absent  lover,  and  she  had  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  a  secret  satisfaction  in  reflecting  that  if  ever 
he  did  come  back,  he  would  find  that  the  girl  he  had  rejected,  that 
the  girl  who  was  neither  to  be  bought  nor  seduced,  had  found  an 
honorable  establishment  and  was  a  marriod  woman. 
,  Then,  too,  somewhere  in  her  head  or  her  heart,  almost  hidden 
from  Ingenue  herself,  was  another  motive — a  less  noble  one,  per- 
haps, but  a  natural  one ;  for,  after  all,  Ingenue  was  a  very  woman, 
even  to  her  weaknesses ;  and  somewhere,  there  was  a  secret  feeling 
of  satisfaction  in  the  idea  that,  at  seventeen,  she,  the  dowerless 
daughter  of  a  poor  author,  would  be  married  and  settled  before 
the  demoiselles  Reveillon,  who  were  fast  verging  towards  their 
majority,  and  who  were  known  to  possess  a  good,  round  dowry, 
and  be  heirs  to  their  father's  immense  wealth. 
13* 


298  INGENUE  J    OB, 

Had  Christian  returned,  all  these  motives  would  not  have 
weighed  an  instant  in  the  balance  ;  but,  as  it  was,  if  they  were  not 
an  inducement,  they  were,  at  least,  slight  elements  of  consolation. 

The  cure'  Bonhomme,  who  was  to  marry  the  young  couple, 
joined  his  entreaties  to  those  of  all  around ;  and  Retif  had  every 
hope  that  Christian,  in  fact,  would  not  come,  or,  if  he  came,  would 
come  too  late.  Since  the  discussion  with  Santerre,  about  the 
wounded  page,  the  father  and  daughter  had  never  once  mentioned 
Christian's  name.  Several  times  Ingenue  had  meditated  another 
expedition  to  the  Ecuries  d'Artois,  but  the  remembrance  of 
Marat's  attempt,  and  the  recollection  of  Charlotte  Corday's  re- 
monstrances, had  always  restrained  her.  .  ,..  .... 

The  marriage  being  now  definitively  decided  on,  an  apartment 
had  been  taken  for  the  young  couple  in  the  house  occupied  by 
Reveillon,  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  It  consisted  of  five 
rooms,  two  on  one  side  of  the  landing  destined  to  Retif;  and  the 
other  three  designed  for  the  habitation  of  the  young  people. 

Reveillon  had  his  choicest  papers  placed  on  all  the  walls ;  his 
whole  family  contributed  to  the  furniture  ;  so  that,  by  the  end  of 
this  last  fortnight's  delay,  everything  was  in  order,  and  displayed 
no  little  neatness  and  elegance. 

At  length  the  day  arrived.  At  an  early  hour  the  cure  had  his 
church  prepared,  and  one  of  its  altars  decorated  with  flowers. 

Ingenue  had  slept  little,  and  had  cried  a  great  deal ;  still,  when 
the  morning  dawned,  like  a  criminal  condemned  to  the  scaffold,  she 
hoped  that  some  unforeseen  circumstance — some  great  catastrophe 
— would  yet  occur  to  avert  her  fate,  and  snatch  her  from  Auger  at 
the  very  foot  of  the  altar.  . 

Her  father  entered  her  room,  yet  still  she  hoped. 

Auger,  tocf,  appeared,  but  even  then  she  hoped. 

The  daughters  of  Reveillon  came  to  dress  her,  and  yet  she  hoped. 
Her  eyes  incessantly  turned  towards  the  door ;  she  allowed  herself 
to  be  decked  in  her  bridal  dress ;  she  did  not  utter  a  word,  but  two 
big  tears  coursed  each' 'other  down  her  cheek ;  every  moment  she 
expected  to  see  the  door  open  and  Christian  rush  in ;  but  the  door 
did  not  open ;  and  at  last,  pale,  lovely,  pure  as  an  angel  of  inno- 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF    BLOOD.  299 

ocnce,  Ingenue  issued  from  her  father's  house,  and  followed  her 
husband  to  the  church. 

Perhaps,  as  she  passed  the  threshold,  had  any  one  offered  her 
death  rather  than  this  marriage,  she  would  have  preferred  death ; 
for,  though  she  hated  not  her  intended  husband,  she  loved  Christian 
more  than  life. 

All  the  way  to  the  church  she  looked  for  her  lover ;  at  the  very 
altar  she  expected  to  find  him  ;  but  there  he  was  not  M.  Chris- 
tian had  forgotten  her,  and,  at  length,  in  despair — overwhelmed 
with  sorrow — Ingenue,  in  the  face  of  God  and  man,  pronounced 
the  solemn  words  which  made  her  the  wife  of  Auger. 

Retif  breathed  freely ;  Reveillon  was  pompously  delighted ;  the 
cure  felt  a  benign  conviction  that  he  had  ensured  the  happiness  of 
two  worthy  people,  whilst  Auger's  intense  felicity  appeared  too 
great  for  words.  The  whole  party  repaired  to  the  apartment  of 
the  young  couple,  where  a  splendid  repast  was  prepared  in  the 
dining-room,  papered  with  one  of  Reveillon 's  newest  papers,  repre- 
senting the  twelve  labors  of  Hercules,  most  gracefully  intertwined 
with  fruits  and  flowers. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

WHAT   TOOK    PLACE    ON   THE    EVENING    OF   THIS    DAY. 
•  . 

No  SOO.VER  had  Christian  reached  home,  than  he  sought  a  pretext 
for  going  out  alone.  It  was  easily  found,  for  it  most 'certainly  was 
his  duty  to  go  and  pay  a  visit  to  the  Count  d'Artois. 

The  count  had  shown  great  partiality  for  his  page,  and,  during 
his  illness,  had  several  times  sent  to  inquire  after  him. 

To  see  the  prince,  therefore,  Christian  went ;  even  his  mother 
could  not  object  to  this.  Afterwards,  he  resolved  to  use  every 
effort  to  see  the  object  of  his  love — the  fair  young  girl  whose 
image,  during  all  these  days  of  suffering,  had  never  once  been  ban- 
ished from  his  heart. 

Z* 


300  INGBKUE;  OR, 

The  prince  received  him  most  graciously ;  he  was  in  high  spirits, 
and  promised  himself  to  thank  Marat  for  his  care  of  Christian,  and 
to  compliment  him  on  the  admirable  cure  he  had  effected. 

When  Christian  left  the  royal  residence,  he  sent  back  his 
mother's  carriage,  saying  that  he  was  going  to  pass  the  evening 
with  the  prince ;  then  taking  a  hackney  coach,  he  drove  directly 
to  the  Quay  St.  Bernard. 

He  had  calculated  that  it  was  about  the  hour  when  Retif,  who 
usually  went  out  every  evening  with  his  daughter,  would  return 
home  with  her,  and  he  resolved  to  wait  and  see  her  pass,  deter- 
mined that  if  she  did  not  come  he  would  boldly  go  up,  and,  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  apply  openly  for  admittance,  trusting  in  the  recital 
of  all  he  had  suffered  for  forgiveness  from  both  father  and 
daughter. 

His  heart  beat  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  windows.  All  was  dark. 
They  are  still  from  home  ;  for,  if  Ingenue  were  in  her  own  room, 
there  would  be  a  light,  for  she  burns  one  all  night;  he  had  often 
watched  it  through  the  pink  curtains  of  her  window,  and  therefore 
knew  it. 

For  more  than  an  hour  Christian  walked  up  and  down,  under 
the  window ;  then  he  began  to  feel  most  intense  fatigue  in  his 
wounded  limb.  Returning  to  his  vehicle,  which  was  still  waiting 
for  him  on  the  quay,  he  got  into  it,  and  ordered  it  to  drive  to  the 
house  occupied  by  Ingenue,  and  there  stop. 

Ensconced  in  his  coach,  Christian  watched  till  the  street  became 
deserted ;  he  heard  the  clqck  strike  nine,  then  half-past  nine ;  at 
which  sound  Christian  darted  from  the  coach,  and  resolved  to  ques- 
tion the  neighbors. 

The  nearest  neighbor  was  a  grocer,  who  was  closing  his  shop, 
when  Christian  addressed  him — 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  can  you  tell  me  whether  anything  has  happened 
to  M.  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,  who  lives  next  door  to  you?" 

"  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  ? — a  writer  and  a  printer,  was  he  not?" 

"  Precisely." 

"  A  man  who  had  a  pretty  daughter." 

"Yes." 


THE   FIBST  DATS   07   BLOOD.  301 

"Well,  sir,  nothing  has  happened  to  him,  except  that  he  has 
moved." 

"  Moved  1" 

"  Yea  j  and  no  later  titan  yesterday." 

"  And  where  is  he  gone  to  live  ?" 

"  In  the  Faubourg  St  Antoine." 

"  Do  you  know  hia  address?" 

••  Not  exactly ;  but  I  know  that  it  is  in  the  same  house  as  a 
great  paper-maker,  that  he  is  gone  to  reside," 

"  In  the  house  occupied  by  M.  Beveillon,  perhaps  ?" 

"  That's  the  name — Rcveillon,  I  remember  it  perfectly,  now." 

Christian,  thanking  the  grocer,  got  into  his  coach  and  ordered 
the  man  to  drive  to  Reveillon's,  whose  address  he  knew.  In  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  at  Reveillon's ;  that  is,  as  near 
as  he  could  get ;  for  a  long  string  of  carriages  filled  the  street,  and 
were  stationed  before  the  door  of  the  house.  From  tho  windows 
of  the  first  floor  came  streams  of  light,  and  the  sound  of  an  orchestra 
broke  on  Christian's  ear  as  he  listened. 

There  was  evidently  a  ball  at  Keveillons';  he  could  sec  the  fig- 
ures move  behind  the  blinds — a  ball,  an  unusual  thing  in  those 
days  amongst  the  bourgeois,  even  when  they  were  as  rich  as  Re- 
veillon.  Christian  inquired  the  cause  of  this  fete,  of  some  of  the 
bystanders,  who  were  gazing  at  the  lights  and  listening  to  the 
music. 

".A  wedding." 

"A  wedding?"  repeated  Christian  ;  bat,  then,  Reveillon  had 
two  daughters ;  it  was  natural  there  should  be  a  wedding  in  the 
house  ;  still  a  vague  anxiety  took  possession  of  Christian. 

"Who  is  the  bride?"  said  he. 

No  one  knew  her  name  ;  all  they  knew  was,  that  the  bridegroom 
had  only  lived  there  two  days. 

Christian  looked  up  with  anxiety  towards  the  windows,  and, 
resolved  on  knowing  more,  got  out  of  his  coach ;  as  he  did  so, 
another  ceach  drove  up,  but,  instead  of  taking  the  line,  it  came 
close  to  his,  and  stopped  in  the  shadow,  far  from  the  others,  evi- 
dently belonging  to  the  guests. 


302  INGENUE  J    OB, 

There  was  but  one  man  in  this  mysterious  coach,  evidently  come 
to  watch  or  to  wait,  and  not  to  take  part  in  the  ball. 

He  put  out  his  head,  and  looked  anxiously  around,  and  at  the 
same  moment,  a  man  rushed  from  the^Shouse,  and  proceeded  up  to 
the  coach,  as  though  he  had  been  expecting  it,  and  knew  precisely 
where  to  find  it. 

Christian  resolved  on  questioning  this  man,  who,  from  his  dress, 
was  evidently  one  of  the  guests,  if  not  even  the  bridegroom  hinir 
self.  He  therefore  darted  after  him,  and  reached  him  just  in  time 
to  hear  him  say,  as  he  looked  into  the  coach — 

"Is  that  your  Highness?" 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  then,  rascal!"  said  a  voice,  which  made 
Christian's  heart  leap  to  his  mouth. 

"Your  Highness  sees  that  I  have  not  deceived  you ;  everything 
is  as  I  said." 

"It  is ;  I  confess  I  did  not  believe  in  your  promise." 

"  Not  believe  me  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  rather  expected  some  trick.  You  know  you  left  me 
vowing  vengeance,  and  I  expected  to  find  some  trap  laid  for  me, 
and  came  prepared,  as  you  see,  with  pistols  and  other  weapons  of 
defence." 

"  Ah,  your  Highness  did  me  great  injustice.  All  is  as  I  prom- 
ised." 

"And  the  girl  is  there?" 

"My  wife,  your  Highness,  is  there,  dancing  away.  The  guests 
are  about  to  retire.  I  shall  retire,  too,  and  your  Highness  shall 
take  my  place.  Here  is  the  key  of  the  apartment ;  your  High- 
ness will,  I  trust,  no  longer  doubt  the  faithful  devotion  of  your 
humble  servant."  .;  9  - 

"  Why,  really,  you  are  quite  sublime  !" 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  did  you  not  tell  me  I  had  not  the  genius  of  my 
predecessors  ?  Did  you  not  tell  me  of  the  exploits  of  Bontems, 
Lebel,  and  Bachelier  ?  and  did  I  not  owe  it  to  myself  to  prove  to 
you  that  I  was  worthy  of  being  the  valet  of  so  great  a  prince  as 
yourself?" 

"  By  Jove !  but  vanity  takes  strange  shapes."       * 


THE   fOLST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  303 

"  And  now  I  most  entreat  your  Highness  to  be  silent  In  a  few 
moments,  the  Santerres,  the  guests  who  are  yet  lingering  above,  will 
have  departed ;  you  will  know  them  easily ;  they  consist  of  three 
persons — a  woman,  a  child  of  eight  years  old,  and  the  brewer 
himself,  who  is  a  species  of  giant  When  this  party  is  gone,  enter 
the  house  boldly,  go  up  to  the  third  story,  aud,  with  the  key  I 
hare  given  you,  open  the  door  facing  you." 

••  I  understand ;  you  shall  see  how  I  will  reward  you  for  all 
this.'' 

"  Success,  and  the  hope  of  reinstatement  in  your  Highness'  favor, 
have  already  sufficiently  rewarded  me,"  said  Auger. 

"  Never  mind,  you  shall  find  I  know  how  to  make  amends. 
Good  night,  Auger." 

Christian  listened  to  this  dialogue  as  though  he  were  listening 
to  the  recital  of  some  dream.  Inginue  married!  Ingenue  sold 
by  her  husband !  and  to  whom  ?  Great  Heaven !  Christian 
shuddered  as  he  remembered  the  title  of  highness  given  to  the 
man  now  waiting  in  the  coach. 

As  he  stood  there,  lost  in  thought,  the  man  Auger,  who  had 
re-entered  the  house,  now  re-appeared,  handing  a  lady  to  a  car- 
riage, and  followed  by  a  large,  burly  man,  and  a  little  child. 

••  Good  night,  Monsieur  Santerre !"  said  Auger,  as  the  party 
drove  off ;  "  good  night  1" 

Then  the  door  of  the  mysterious  coach  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  person  within  jumped  out,  and,  rushing  up  to  the  door,  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  the  bridegroom,  and  almost  instantly 
entered  the  house,  whilst  Auger  walked  hastily  from  it,  and  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  the  street,  soon  disappeared. 

Christian  could  not  move';  he  leant  against  the  wall,  like  one 
bewildered.  Presently  some  one  drew  near  to  close  a  window, 
and  Christian  recognized  Betif. 

"  Good  night,  son-in-law !''  said  he,  in  a  jovial  voice ;  "  lock  your 
door ;  good  night,  and  God  bless  you !  God  bless  you,  Ingenue, 
myt-liildl"  • 

"  It  is  Ingenue,"  said  Christian  ;  "  she  is  married,  and  to  whom  ? 
To  whom  does  Retif  speak  ?  With  whom  is  she  now  ?  What  in- 


304  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

fernal  mystery  is  going  on  within  those  walls  ?  Oh,  God  !  that  I 
could  tear  away  its  walls  with  my  nails,  and  unravel  this  hellish 
plot  1" 

Christian  walked  up  and  down  in  agony ;  he  watched  all  the 
lights  go  out,  one  by  one,  until  at  length  one  only  remained,  faintly 
glimmering  behind  the  muslin  curtains.  There  was  Ingenue's 
room ;  he  could  not  save  her,  but  Christian  resolved  to  avenge 
her ;  and  taking  his  station  at  the  door,  he  determined  to  await 
the  morning,  and  to  seize  the  villain  who  had  robbed  him  of  his 
happiness,  as  he  issued  from  the  house  into  which  he  had  surrepti- 
tiously stolen.  ' 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

INGENUE'S    WEDDING    NIGHT. 

FOB  more  than  an  hour  Christian  watched.  Suddenly,  he 
thought  he  heard  a  sound  as  of  one  descending  the  stairs  within ; 
he  turned,  the  door  of  the  house  was  suddenly  opened,  and  a  man 
closely  enveloped  in  a  cloak  darted  out. 

Christian  followed  hastily,  and  placed  himself  before  him. 

"  Who  are  you,  fellow  ?"  said  the  stranger,  evidently  seeking  the 
hilt  of  his  sword  under  his  cloak ;  "  who  are  you,  who  thus  darea 
to  stop  me  ?" 

"  One,  sir,  who  wants  to  find  out  who  you  are,  and  who  will,  too'." 

"  What !  are  you  the  captain  of  the  watch,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  not ;  and  you  know  it  very  well" 

"  Then  let  me  pass,  sir." 

"  Not  till  I  see  your  face,"  said  'Christian,  seizing  his  cloak  and 
dragging  it  aside.  But  no  sooner  had  he  done  so,  than  he  let  it 
fall,  exclaiming — 

"  The  Count  d'Artois  !" 

"  My  page,  Christian,  by  all  that  is  wonderful !"  said  the  Count. 

"  Oh,  I  have  doubted  for  three  long  hours ;  I  would  not,  could 
not  believe  it  was  your  Highness." 


THE   FIBST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  305 

"  Why  not,  sir  ?" 

"  I  could  not  believe  your  Highness  capable " 

"  Capable  of  what  sir  ?" 

"  Of  crime  and  treachery." 

"Of  crime  and  treachery!  Hallo,  Monsieur  Christian,  what 
does  this  mean  T" 

"  What  does  it  moan  ?  That  your  Highness  has  been  in  that 
house — in  the  room  of oh,  heavens " 

'•  In  the  room  of  a  rascal  who  had  sold  me  his  wife." 

"  And  your  Highness  actually  avows  it  1" 

"  I  do,  sir  ;  but  really,  sir,  I  was  not  aware  my  pages  were  so 
virtuous.  This  is  a  high  state  of  morality,  that  would  delight  tho 
good  people  of  Paris !" 

"  I  have  no  intention  to  delight  the  people  of  Paris,  sir,  and 
have  nothing  to  do  with  them  ;  but  this  I  know,  that  I  will  not 
or  cannot  serve  a  prince  who  exacts  and  accepts  such  services  as 
those  he  has  accepted  this  night ;  therefore  I  have  the  honor  of 
tendering  my  resignation  to  your  Highness." 

"  What !  here,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  the  open  street?" 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,  if,  in  laying  it  at  your  Highness'  feet,  it 
falls  into  the  gutter." 

"  Sir,  you  are  an  impudent  puppy." 

"I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  no  longer  in  your  Highness'  ser- 
vice ;  therefore  I  can  resent  an  insult" 

"  So  be  it ;  I  am  in  a  devil  of  a  temper,  and  shall  be  delighted 
to  vent  it  on  somebody.  You  say  you  have  been  insulted " 

"  Your  Highness  made  use  of  an  expression  ?" 

"  Well,  I  am  willing,  sir,  to  give  you  satisfaction.  You  are  a 
gentleman  by  birth,  sir.  I  will  meet  you  as  I  did  the  Duke  de 
Bourbon.  Will  that  do  ?" 

Chri3tian  hesitated  ;  he  did  not  quite  understand. 

"  Well,  sir,  draw,  and  be  quick  ;  for  if  you  wait,  and  any  one 
should  pass,  it  will  go  ilF  with  you,  you  know.  Draw,  sir,  I  say !" 

As  he  spokef  the  prince  drew  his  sword,  and  Christian  mechani-  . 
cally  did  the  same ;  but  when  hia  sword  crossed  that  of  the  prince, 
he  let  it  fall,  exclaiming— 


306  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  No,  never  ;  I  will  not,  I  cannot"  He  thrust  his  sword  into 
the  scabbard,  and  stepped  back. 

"Well,  sir,  now  let  me  pass  on,"  said  the- prince;  "since  you 
decline  to  fight,  there  is  no  cause  to  detain  me  here." 

Christian  drew  back,  and  the  prince  passed  on,  murmuring 
something  which  Christian,  in  his  confusion,  failed  to  hear. 

When  the  prince  disappeared,  the  page  turned  towards  the 
house.  As  he  gazed,  he  uttered"  an  exclamation  of  joy  ;  the  prince, 
in  his  hurry,  had  left  the  door  open.  To  dart  into  the  alley,  dash 
up  the  stairs,  and  rush  into  a  room  of  which  the  door  was  open, 
was  but  the  work  of  a  moment. 

There,  in  the  room  he  so  abruptly  entered',  was  Ingenue — Inge- 
nue, half  undressed,  pale  and  trembling,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  At  the  noise  Christian  made  on  entering,  she  turned, 
recognized  him,  and  attempted  to  rise ;  but,  uttering  a  cry  of  joy, 
and  extending  her  arms  towards  him,  she  tottered  and  fell,  fainting 
at  his  feet. 

The  day  was  breaking,  and  through  the  open  window  the  early 
birds  were  beginning  to  sing,  in  the  littte  garden  under  the  window 
of  Ingenue's  new  abode.  The  world,  however,  still  slept :  they 
were  alone.  Christian  went  up  to  Ingenue,  and  raised  her  in  his 
arms,  when  suddenly  a  step  was  heard  in  the  adjoining  room,  and 
Auger  appeared. 

Augur  had  seen  the  prince  leave  the  house,  and  had  hastened 
back  ;  and  here  he  found  Ingenue  fainting  in  the  arms  of  Chris- 
tian. 

It  was  a  strange  spectacle,  the  meeting  of  these  three,  in  the 
grey,  cold  dawn ;  and  though  neither  of  the  three  knew  what 
secret  link  connected  them,  all  felt  that  some  terrible  mystery  was 
about  to  be  revealed. 

As  for  Christian,  he  waited  for  no  explanation ;  but,  laying 
Ingenue  on  her  bed,  he  drew  his  sword,  resolved  on  punishing  the 
man  who  he  knew  had  deceived  and  betrayed  the  woman  he 
loved. 

At  the  sight  of  the  naked  sword,  Auger  drew  back.  Ingenue, 
who  had  now  recovered  her  senses,  hastily  rose  from  the  bed,  and 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  307 

stood  between  them.  Her  long  hair  streamed  over  her,  fair  and 
abundant  as  that  of  Eve,  and,  like  the  locks  of  Eve,  they  veiled 
the  beautiful  form,  clothed  but  lightly  in  a  simple  nightrdress. 
There  she  stood,  her  hands  holding  her  temples,  gazing  from 
one  to  the  other.  At  length  she  understood  her  situation — the 
past  and  the  present — and,  with  an  imperative  gesture,  she  signed 
to  Christian  to  leave  the  room, 

Christian  hesitated,  and  looked  at  her  imploringly ;  but  Ingenue 
repeated  the  sign,  and  Christian  moved  towards  the  door.  There 
he  turned,  and  then  Ingenue,  extending  her  arms  towards  Chris- 
tian, gazed  at  him  with  such  a  look  of  love,  sorrow,  and  innocence, 
that  Christian's  heart  i>led  within  him.  Auger  made  a  motion 
as  if  to  advance ;  but  Christian,  striking  him  across  the  face  with 
the  Sat  blade  of  his  sword,  rushed  past  him  and  disappeared. 

Auger  and  Ingenue  remained  alone.  As  for  Auger,  he  was 
perfectly  bewildered.  How  Christian  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
prince — how  it  was  that  his  wife  had  fainted— how  it  came  that 
they  were  all  in  the  relative  positions  in  which  they  found  them- 
selves, he  was  unable  to  tell 

As  for  Ingenue,  she  felt  there  was  some  extraordinary  mystery, 
which  she  could  not  .fathom  ;  and,  iiidr.il,  sin-  disdained  to  attempt 
it ;  only  she  instinctively  felt  that  she  was  the  victim  of  some  great 
piece  of  villany,  of  which  Auger  was  the  author. 

When  Christian  had  disappeared,  she  turned  towards  Auger,  and 
casting  on  him  a  withering  glance  of  contempt,  said,  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  scorn — 

"  Infamous  villian !" 

Auger  attempted  to  speak,  and  came  towards  her. 

"  Keep  back,  sir  I"  said  Ingenue,  "  or  I  will  call  my  father- 
Wretch  !"  continued  she,  as  Auger,  considerably  in  dread  of  a 
family  scene,  paused  and  was  silent — "  wretch  !  you  forgot,  when 
you  meditated  this  piece  of  villainy,  that  one  word  from  me  would 
condemn  you  to  the  galleys,  and  that  not  even  the  credit  of  your 
worthy  master  could  save  you." 

"  Madam,"  said  Auger,  "  of  what  do  you,  then,  accuse  me  ?" 

"  I  accuse  you,  sir,  of  having  introduced  into  the  bed-chamder  of 


308  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

your  wife  your  worthy  master  the  prince,  whom  you  serve.  I  ac- 
cuse you  of  having  sold  me  to  him." 

"  How  do  you  dare  say  that  I  sold  you  to  him  ?" 

"  Because,  sir,  he  told  me  so  himself." 

Auger  bit  his  lip.  There  was  a  pause  ;  during  this  pause,  short 
as  it  was,  Auger's  ready  wit  had  found  an  excuse. 

"  The  prince  told  you  so  ?  no  wonder  ;  yet  whilst  I  was  in  the 
Btreet,  just  as  Santerre  had  left  me,  it  was  the  prince  who  had  me 
arrested,  in  order  that  he  might  take  my  place." 

"  Then,"  replied  Ingenue,  somewhat  astonished  at  the  probability 
of  this  story,  "  you  accuse  the  prince,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  do  ;  he  intended  to  punish  me  for  leaving  him." 

"  He  then  has  been  watching  you  ?  he,  then,  alone  contrived  what 
has  happened  to  night  ?" 

"Who  else?  Do  you  not  see  that  this  is  the  only  probable 
explanation  ?" 

"  I  see  the  probability  of  the  Story  ;  go  now  and  call  my  father." 

"  Your  father  1  what  for." 

"  That  we  may  have  justice ;  his  pen  has  power ;  and  though  our 
enemy  is  a  prince,  his  pen  shall  obtain  justice  for  me — for  you ;  for 
my  honor  is  yours." 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  nothing  of  the  kind  !" 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  prince's  influence  is  immense,  and  I  am  afraid -" 

"  You  are  afraid,  are  you  ?" 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  feel  equal  to  encountering  a  prince." 

"  You  think  nothing,  then,  of  your  honor,  nor  of  the  satisfaction 
of  being  revenged  on  a  prince  of  whom  you  yourself  have  spoken 
so  ill  ?  It  was  a  lie,  then,  you  told,  when  you  said  that  nothing 
would  prevent  your  being  an  honest  man." 

"  Madam " 

"  Silence,  sir !  you  are  an  infamous  villain.  I  felt  it  instinctively 
from  the  first,  and  now  I  know  it." 

"As  you  please,  madam.  You  may  say,  if  you  like,  that  I 
brought  the  prince  into  your  room ;  but  I  will  say,  that  in  your 
room  I  found  your  lover." 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  309 

"I  shall  not  care,"  replied  Ingenue.  Confess  your  infamy.  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  my  love.  The  world  shall  judge  between  us." 

Auger  darted  a  look  of  hate  at  his  wife  ;  he  had  not  expected 
such  a  determined  character,  and  he  really  felt  foiled  and  frightened. 

"  Well,  madam,  have  your  own  way ;  we  shall  see  how  it  will 
all  end." 

"  I  can  tell  you  how  it  will  end,  if  you  please,"  said  Inge'nue. 

« Indeed  1" 

"Yes.  To-morrow,  that  is,  in  a  few  hours,  I  shall  tell  all  to  my 
father ;  and  the  man  whose  credulity  you  have  abused,  whose  affec- 
tion you  have  deceived,  will  rouse  his  energies,  and  appeal  to  all 
his  friends  for  revenge  ;  and,  sir,  if  the  prince  is  powerful,  he  has 
many  enemies.  There  is,  however,  another  way,  sir.  I  love  my 
father.  I  am  a  modest,  Christian  woman,  and  hate  the  curiosity 
of  the  world,  its  pity  or  its  scandal,  as  I  dread  the  sorrow  of  the 
poor  old  man.  I  can  bury  all  the  occurrences  of  this  night  deep  in 
my  heart ;  but,  then,  from  this  hour  you  are  to  me  as  a  stranger  ; 
or,  rather,  yon  are  nothing  more  to  me  than  an  object  of  hatred 
and  contempt" 

Anger  started.    Ingenue,  getting  more  excited,  continued — 

"  Justify  yourself  within  two  days  ;  prove  to  me  that  you  have 
been  the  victim,  and  not  the  criminal ;  or  be  assured  that  evermore 
I  shall  hold  you  infamous.  Now,  sir,  leave  me !  go  1" 

Auger  waited  for  a  minute  or  two,  debating  in  his  own  mind 
whether  he  should  go  or  stay ;  but  at  length  he  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  the  room,  spending  the  rest  of  the  night  in  conjectures  and 
suppositions  as  to  how  all  this  had  come  about. 

As  soon  as  Auger  had  disappeared,  Ingenue  bolted  the  door ; 
then  the  anger  vanished  from  her  face,  the  rage,  the  shame,  faded 
away,  and  love  and  joy  beamed  in  every  feature.  Tossing  back 
her  long  hair  from  her  beating  temples,  Ingenue  fell  on  her  knees, 
and  burying  her  head  in  the  pillows  of  her  bed,  she  murmured,  in 
a  voice  fit  to  have  invoked  angels  from  heaven,  "  Christian ! 
Christian !  at  last  he  is  returned.  Christian !  Christian !" 


310  INGENUE  J   OR, 


CHAPTER    X.LVIII. 

THE  WAY  IN  WHICH  AUGEB  WAS  RECEIVED  BY  COUNT 
D'ARTOIS. 

CHRISTIAN  meantime,  on  whom  Ingenue  was  calling  so  lovingly, 
but  who  could  not  hear  that  sweet  voice,  which  would  have  con- 
soled him  for  everything,  returned  home  half  dead  with  fatigue,  and 
perfectly  overcome  with  surprise  and  bewilderment. 
'  He  threw  himself  on  his  bed,  and  endeavored,  in  this  chaos  of 
events,  to  try  and  make  out  a  clear  account  of  all  that  had  occurred. 
From  amidst  the  whole  there  came  forth,  at  last,  the  recollection 
of  the  smiling,  mocking  face  of  the  Count  d'Artois,  who  had 
offered  him  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman,  and  with  whom  he  had 
refused  to  fight.  This  was  something  tangible.  Rising  from  his 
bed,  he  sat  down  and  wrote  such  a  letter  to  the  prince  as  contained 
all  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  in  which  he  threatened  him  with  all 
the  publicity  which  the  infamy  of  his  conduct  deserved,  and  which 
should  avenge  the  blighted  honor  of  Ingenue. 

Having  sent  this  off  to  Versailles,  with  orders  to  have  it  instantly 
delivered  to  the  prince,  poor  Christian  allowed  himself  to  be  un- 
dressed by  his  valet,  and  going  to  bed,  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber, 
which  the  intense  fatigue  of  mind  and  body  he  had  gone  through 
rendered  so  exceedingly  necessary. 

The  messenger  repaired  with  all  haste  to  Versailles,  and  by 
nine  o'clock  delivered  the  letter  to  the  prince.  He  had  not  yet 
risen  when  it  was  given  into  his  hands,  and  after  having  read  it,  he 
threw  himself  back  on  his  pillows  and  began  to  meditate. 

The  times  were  difficult  times  for  princes ;  the  thunder-clouds  of 
the  forthcoming  revolution  were -looming  in  the  horizon,  and  Louis 
XVI.,  who  was  to  be  condemned  by  the  people,  had  begun  to  give 
them  a  great  many  liberties,  and  to  be  very  strict  with  the  privi- 
leges of  the  nobility. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  311 

Whilst  he  was  lost  in  meditation,  wondering  how  he  could  con- 
jure the  storm  which  threatened,  Auger,  who  had  access  to  the 
prince  at  all  times,  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Auger,  obse- 
quious, smiling,  cringing — Anger,  who  imagined  that  he  had  ful- 
filled all  his  promises,  and  was  come  to  be  thanked  and  rewarded. 

"  Ah  1"  exclaimed  the  prince,  in  a  tone  which  Auger  interpreted 
in  his  favor ;  "  aha  I  so  here  is  master  Auger  1" 

"  Yes,  your  highness ;  Auger,  who  trusts  he  has  proved  to  your 
highness  that,  although  such  servants  as  Zopirus  are  rare  now-a- 
days,  they  are,  however,  to  be  found  sometimes ;  yet,  if  your  high- 
ness  remembers,  Zopirus  had  been  overwhelmed  with  the  favors  of 
Darius,  whilst  I " 

"  You  are  mighty  learned,  master  Auger.  I  think  you  would 
do  well  to  think  a  little  more  about  modern  than  ancient  history. 
What  has  Darius  to  do  with  us?" 

"  I  merely  mentioned  Darius  to  compare  myself  to  Zopirus,  your 
highness.  The  satrap  Zopirus,  you  know,  cut  off  his  nose  and  ears, 
and  entered  Babylon  thus,  in  order  that  he  might  open  the  gates 
of  the  city  to  his  master.  But  how  your  highness  looks  at  me  1" 

The  Count  d'Artois  did  certainly  look  at  M.  Anger  as  if  he 
didn't  in  the  least  relish  his  quotations  from  Plutarch ;  his  habitu- 
ally cheerful  and  open  countenance  was  darkened  by  a  frown, 
which  began  considerably  to  alarm  M.  Anger. 

"  So,  Master  Auger,"  said  he,  "  you  think  I  have  reason  to  be 
satisfied?" 

"Satisfied I"  exclaimed  Auger,  who  imagined  the  prince  had 
nothing  more  to  wish. 

"  Do  not  repeat  my  words,  sir,"  said  the  prince. 

"  Oh,  your  highness  is  angry  at  having  been  recognized,  I  see ; 
but  what  matter  ?  it  is  a  greater  satisfaction,  I  should  think." 

"  Do  you  intend  to.  mock  me,  sir,"  said  the  prince,  springing  up 
from  his  pillows. 

"  Good  gracious,  your  highness, .what  have  I  done?" 

"  Cheated  me,  Master  Auger ;  sold  the  goods,  but  not  delivered 
them." 

"  What  does  your  highness  mean  ?" 
2A* 


312  INGENUE  ;   OB, 

"  I  mean,  sir,  that  you,  like  a  traitor  as  you  are,  left  a  light 
burning,  and  that  by  that  light  I  was  recognized ;  and,  being 
recognized,  was  received  with  cries,  and  tears,  and  entreaties ;  so 
that  I,  who  am  not  accustomed  to  take  women  by  force,  sir  ;  I  was 
obliged  to  retreat." 

"  To  retreat !" 

"  Tes ;  but  not  before  I  had  found  time  to  fully  explain  how  I 
got  there,  and  by  whose  means." 

"  Foiled,  repulsed,  by  G — dl"  said  Auger. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  did  not  know  it  ?  has  not  your 
immaculate  wife  told  you  so?"  ->  >n 

"  She  has  told  me  nothing.  I  am  sure  she  thinks  there  was 
nothing  to  tell." 

"  That  may  be.  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  her ;  but  you, 
sir,  you  have  compromised  my  honor — betrayed  me — placed  me  in 
a  false  position." 

"  Does  your  highness  take  this  matter  so  seriously  ?" 

"  So  seriously — rascal !  fool !  dolt !  I  tell  you  I  will  have  you 
hanged.  Why,  sir,  I  was  met  and  recognized,  coming  out  of 
the  house,  by  one  of  my  own  pages,  M.  Christian  Olinski." 

"  One  of  your  highness'  pages !"  exclaimed  Auger — the  same, 
probably,  whom  I  found  in  Ingenue's  room." 

"  In  Ingenue's  room !  So,  we  were  two,  were  we  ?  A  pretty 
piece  of  innocence  you  have  purchased,  Master  Auger." 

"  Can  your  highness  suppose  for  an  instant " 

"Everything  of  you,  M.  Auger;  and  since  you  have  compared 
yourself  to  Zopirus,  take  care  of  your  ears ;  for  I  swear  I'll  cut 
them  off  for  you." 

"Oh,  I  declare  most  solemnly,  that  I  knew  nothing  of  this 
Christian." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  he  knew  a  great  deal  about  you ;  and,  look 
here,  he  has  written  to  me  a  threatening  letter,  in  which  he  vows 
he  will  denounce  us  both — both,  do  you  hear  ?  but,  thank  Heaven, 
all  the  odium  shall  fall  upon  you,  Master  Auger.  Look  out,  for 
I  shall  not  shrink  from  publicity,  nor  shall  I  protect  you.  I  can 
justify  myself." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  313 

"Justify  youraelf ?"  said  Anger,  mechanically. 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  not  to  repeat  my  words.  Sir,  you  are  as  great 
a  fool  as  you  are  a  villian,  and  I  dismiss  you  from  my  service. 
Besides,  how  do  you  think  I  can  retain  a  man  who  sells  his  own 
wife  ?" 

"  Your  highness  knew  Ingenue  was  my  wife." 

"  I  did  not,  sir ;  or,  at  least,  if  I  say  that  I  did  not,  everybody 
will  believe  me,  for  everybody  will  believe  you  guilty  of  every  kind 
of  lie  and  infamy.  You  deceived  me.  I  admired  this  young  girl, 
and  you  gave  me  access  to  her  room  ;  but  you  did  not  tell  me  that 
the  room  was  yours,  or  that  the  woman  was  your  own  wife — an 
angel  of  truth  and  purity.  Oh,  I  can  justify  both  Ingenue  and 
myself,  never  fear." 

«  But  I  shall  be  lost." 

"  Do  you  think  I  care  about  that?" 

"  But  I  shall  be  compromised !" 

"  Do  you  think  that  is  not  already  done  ?" 

"  But  I  swear  to  your  highness  that  it  was  not  my  fault." 

"  Perhaps  you  intend  to  insinuate  that  it  was  mine?" 

'•  I  knew  nothing  of  Christian." 

"  A  great  fault,  M.  Anger ;  you  ought  to  have  watched ;  for 
suppose,  instead  of  being  a  gentleman,  as  Christian  is,  he  had  beeu 
a  thief  or  a  rascal,  like  you — see  the  advantage  he  might  have 
taken  of  my  position,  besides  stealing  my  purse." 

"  What  will  become  of  me,  if  your  highness  abandons  me  ?"  said 
Auger,  in  despair. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  fully  aware  that  I  care  very  little  about 
that !  This  letter  here,  asks  for  justice,  and,  by  Heavens !  justice 
shall  be  done !  I  will  tell  the  whole  story  to  the  king.  I  will 
obtain  the  protection  of  the  queen  for  this  young  girl;  I  will 
myself  ofler  my  humble  excuses  to  Ingenue.  Public  opinion,  with 
which  I  am  threatened,  shall  acquit  me — nay,  shall  applaud  me ; 
ucv.-r  mind  what  it  docs  for  you  !" 

"  So  your  highness  abandons  me  ?" 

"Most  utterly!" 

14 


314  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  But  suppose  we  had  succeeded " 

"  Well,  master  Auger,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  should  have  been 
even  more  angry  than  I  am  ;  for  I  should  have  destroyed  one  of 
the  sweetest,  purest  young  girls  I  ever  saw,  and  out  of  a  mere 
caprice,  which  you,  sir,  encouraged  and  inflamed.  I  think  I  should 
have  had  you  hanged  myself,  M.  Auger,  if  we  had  been  what  you 
call  successful.  Like  the  devil,  I  am  not  as  black  as  I  am  painted  ; 
and  I  should  be  a  fool  to  throw  away  this  opportunity  of  proving 
it  to  the  public." 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope  for  me  ?" 

"  Not  the  most  distant." 

"  Oh,  heavens  I"  exclaimed  Auger ;  "  I  shall  be  provoked  into 
some  crime  which  I  had  sworn  to  avoid." 

"  You  will  be  provoked  into  being  hanged,  like  a  scoundrel,  as 
you  are.  So  you  had  better  get  out  of  my  presence,  as  fast  as  you 
can ;  off  with  you  I" 

Auger,  with  a  piteous  look,  put  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
door,  and  then  turned  towards  the  prince  for  the  last  time ;  but 
the  prince  motioned  him  to  depart,  and  Auger,  in  despair,  left  his 
presence. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone,  than  the  prince  rung  the  bell  violently, 
and  ordered  that  a  messenger  should  be  instantly  sent  for  his  page, 
M.  Christian  Olinski. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

THE     PRINCE     AND     THE   PAGE. 

CHRISTIAN  had  just  awoke,  calm  and  refreshed,  from  his  long 
slumber,  and  was  reflecting  on  what  he  had  done,  and  on  the  letter 
he  had  sent  the  prince,  when  the  count's  messenger  was  announced. 

It  was  not  without  some  degree  of  anxiety  that  Christian  heard 
of  his  arrival ;  for  in  the  year  1788  the  Bastille  still  existed,  though 
it  was  destined  to  be  .demolished  the  next  year,  and  the  old  tradi- 
tional respect  for  the  royal  family  was  still  in  full  force. 


THE  FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  315 

Not  content  with  the  mere  message,  he  sent  for  the  messenger 
and  questioned  him.  The  messenger  related  how  the  prince  had 
appeared  to  be  in  a  great  passion,  and  how  he  had  desired  the 
messenger  to  make  all  speed.  Christian  sighed ;  he  felt  there  was 
no  doubt  of  the  fate  which  awaited  him,  but  resolved,  nevertheless, 
to  obey  the  prince's  summons  without  delay. 

Before  following  the  messenger  to  Versailles,  however,  he  went 
to  take  leave  of  his  mother. 

••  Mother,"  said  he,  ••  the  prince  has  just  sent  for  me,  and  it  may 
so  happen  that  I  may  not  goon  return." 

"  Not  return  1" 

••  No,  mother  ;  the  prince,  I  believe,  intends  to  confide  a  secret 
mission  to  me,  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  execute  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible." 

"  But  surely  you  can  return  to  Paris  before  you  go,  to  take  leave 
of  me?" 

"  That  might  compromise  the  secresy  of  the  mission." 

'<  But  your  health  ?" 

"  Oh,  travelling  will  do  me  good." 

"  Well,  then,  my  child,  go.  But  could  I  not  meet  you  some- 
where, and  see  you  again  ?" 

Christian  turned  away  from  his  mother's  penetrating  glance. 
Still  the  countess  did  not  suspect  that  there  was  anything  to  fear, 
and  embracing  him,  she  let  him  depart 

Too  feeble  to  undertake  so  long  a  journey  on  horseback,  Chris- 
tian proceeded  to  Versailles  in  his  mother's  carriage. 

He  found  the  prince  in  full  dress,  gravely  pacing  his  room. 
Christian  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"  Come  in,  air,"  said  the  prince.  "  I  have  been  waiting  for  you. 
gome  time." 

"  I  know  that  your  highness  has  done  me  that  honor,"  replied 
Christian,  respectfully,  though  with  great  dignity, 

As  «oon  as  the  servant  who  had  introduced  Christian  had  with- 
drawn and  closed  the  door,  the  prince,  stepping  in  front  of  the 
page,said- 

"  Sir,  our  intercourse  is  very  strange.    I  think,  considering  our 


316  INGENUE;  OR, 

respective  positions,  your  letter,  for  instance,  is  scarcely  one  that 
princes  are  accustomed  to  receive." 

"  The  position  in  which  I  have  been  placed,  your  highness,  is  an 
unusual  one." 

"  I  want  no  explanation,  sir,  till  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to 
say." 

Christian  thought  of  the  Bastille,  and  prepared  to  give  up  his 
sword. 

"  Monsieur  Christian,"  said  the  prince,  "  I  have  been  deceived 
and  duped,  by  one  of  my  valets,  in  a  way  which  has  led  to  most 
fatal  consequences,  and  which  has  led  me  to  insult  a  woman.  I 
deeply  deplore  this  unlucky  event,  but  know  all  errors  can  be 
atoned  for." 

"  Not  all !"  exclaimed  Christian  ;  "  some  are  fatal." 

"Fatal,  in  what  way?" 

"  The  honor  of  a  woman,  once  compromised,  once  lost,  nothing 
can  restore." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  how  has  Madame  Auger  lost  her  honor  ?  Not 
with  me,  I  swear  1" 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  when  her  husband  sold  her  to  you " 

"  Well,  sir " 

"  She  cannot  but  be  dishonored." 

"  There  you  are  mistaken,  sir.  Some  time  since  the  night  of 
the  emeute,  in  which  you  were  wounded,  I  had  encountered  Mile. 
Ingenue,  and  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  protect  her  and  see  her 
home,  so  that  she  knew  me  personally,  at  least,  if  not  by  name. 
To-night,  therefore,  when  she  saw  me,  she  was  enabled  to  recognize 
me;  and,  thank  Heaven,  was  able  to  distinguish  the  difference 
Heaven  has  kindly  made  between  her  husband's  face  and  mine. 
Many  women  would  not  have  disliked  the  change,  but  Ingenue 
started  away  from  me,  and  with  tears  and  entreaties  bid  me  depart. 
I  tried  to  explain,  then  to  flatter,  then  to  entreat.  All  was  in 
vain ;  Ingenue  was  inflexible,  and  on  her  knees  implored  me  to 
desist.  Seeing  all  was  useless,  I  made  some  polite  common-place 
speech,  and,  bidding  her  have  no  fear,  retreated,  somewhat  morti- 


DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  317 

fied,  as  you  may  think,  and  made  the  best  of  my  way  into  the 
street,  where  you  met  me." 

"  Can  this  be  true  ?"  murmured  Christian. 

"  Sirl"  said  the  prince,  with  all  the  pride  of  his  race  towering 
in  his  form. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  true ;  that  noble  brow,  those  noble  lips,  cannot 
lie.  Ingenue,  then,  is  pure  and  unsullied.  On  my  knees  I  bless 
you,  prince  ;  for  you  have  restored  me  to  life."  • 

"  You  are  then  her  lover,  are  you  ?" 

"  Her  lover  !  yea,  for  I  worship  her  as  a  saint ;  I  respect  her  aa 
I  do  my  mother ;  I  idolize  her  as  a  woman  ;  dwell  with  love  on 
her  very  look,  on  the  sound  of  her  voice ;  follow,  like  a  slave,  the 
trace  of  her  footsteps  ;  tremble,  when  her  hand  touches  mine ;  yes, 
I  am  her  lover,  if  this  it  is  to  be  a  lover  ;  for  thus  it  is  that  I  love 
Ingenue." 

«  Why,  Christian,"  said  the  prince,  with  the  fellowship  of  youth, 
"  your  enthusiasm  is  quite  refreshing — do  tell  me  your  story." 

Christian,  thus  entreated,  told  the  prince  how  he  had  loved  old 
Retif  s  daughter,  how  he  had  nearly  passed  himself  off  for  a  work- 
man, how  he-  had  been  discovered,  and  how  lietif  had  turned  him 
out  Then  he  came  to  the  accident  which  had  so  abruptly  broken 
off  their  intercourse — to  the  impossibility  which  existed,  during 
his  whole  residence  at  Marat's,  of  communicating  with  Ingenue ;  and 
finally,  he  concluded,  by  relating,  in  all  its  details,  the  agonies  of 
the  night  in  which  he  had  first  discovered  that  Ingenue  was 
married,  and  had  waited  for  the  prince  at  the  door  of  her  house. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Christian,  let  me  tell  you,  that  of  course  I  knew 
nothing  of  Mile.  Ingenue  beyond  her  beauty,  which  had  attracted 
me,  for  she  has  the  beauty  and  refinement  •  of  a  duchess,  and  my 
factotum,  Auger,  promised  to  obtain  her  for  me." 

"  The  scoundrel  1" 

"  First,  he  tried  to  carry  her  off,  like  a  brute,  as  he  is,  for  which 
he  got  soundly  cudgelled,  and  for  which  I  dismissed  him  from  my 
service." 

"  It  was  nobly  done,  my  lord." 
The  rascal,  who  liked  his  position  with  me,  however,  did  not 


318  DTCHENUE;  OR, 

like  the  idea  of  giving  it  op.  He  imagined  my  favor  depended  on 
his  succeeding  in  the  undertaking.  What  does  he  do,  but,  break- 
ing off  entirely  from  me,  goes  to  some  old  cure,  and  pretends  to  be 
converted — throws  himself  on  the  mercy  of  Ingenue,  and  ingra- 
tiates himself  with  the  father.  So  well  does  he  manage,  that,  as 
you  see,  he  obtained  their  confidence,  and  actually  married  tha 
young  girl.  I,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  had,  meantime,  almost  for- 
gotten Ingenue  and  quite  forgotten  Auger,  when,  yesterday,  I 
received  this  note.  You  must  know,  before  I  read  it  to  you,  that, 
in  dismissing  him,  I  had,  to  humiliate  him,  compared  him  to  his 
illustrious  predecessors  in  intrigue — Lebel,  Bachelier,  e  tutti  quanti  ; 
a  comparison,  which,  it  seems,  roused  all  his  ambition.  Here  is 
the  letter : 

"  MONSKIGNEUE — Ingenue  no  longer  resides  where  she  did,  in  the 
Eue  des  Bernardins ;  she  lives  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  at  the 
house  of  Reveillon,  the  great  manufacturer  of  wall-paper.  She 
is  no  longer  dependent  on  her  father ;  she  is  married,  and  her  own 


"  If  your  Highness  will  come  to-night,  between  twelve  and  one, 
and  wait  before  the  door  of  that  house,  he  will  learn  more,  and 
find  some  one  who  will  give  him  a  key,  to  open  the  door  of  a  house 
in  which  he  can  easily  find  his  way."  . 

"  An  infamous  letter !"  exclaimed  Christian. 

"  Which  I  have  fortunately  kept.  I  confess  it  was  because  I 
suspected  some  trick." 

"  Tour  Higness,  however,  went  to  the  appointed  place." 

"  I  did  ;  and  there  I  found  my  man.  There,  as  you  know,  he 
gave  me  the  key,  and  I  entered  the  house,  and  attained  the  room 
of  your  Ingenue.  There,  had  it  not  been  for  her  instinctive  pu- 
rity and  the  light  which  she  has  the  habit  of  burning,  an  innocent 
girl  would  have  been  made  miserable  for  life." 

"  What  an  infamous  plot,  and  what  an  infernal  scoundrel !  Poor 
Ingenue !" 

"  Poor  Ingenue,  indeed !  Never  mind,  Auger ;  we  can  take  care 
of  him." 


THB   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  319 

"  But  how  shall  I  apologize  to  your  Highness?" 

"  Do  not  apologize  at  all,  Christian,  but  give  me  your  hand ; 
you  are  a  noble  fellow.  But  now  to  dispose  of  Auger." 

"  That  is  easily  done,  I  should  think." 

"  Not  so  easily  as  you  imagine ;  for  how  can  we  dispose  of 
Auger  without  injuring  his  wife  ?  The  honor  of  a  woman  will 
not  bear  discussing  ;  and  however  pure  and  chaste  she  may  be,  the 
insult  to  which  Ingenue  was  exposed  last  night,  would,  if  known, 
find  many  to  sneer  and  many  to  doubt." 

"  Too  true,  I  fear,"  replied  Christian  ;  "  besides,  your  Highness' 
name  must  not  be  pronounced  in  this  disgraceful  business." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  replied  the  prince,  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  my 
share  in  the  business  being  known  ;  but  we  must  be  cautious — not 
for  my  sake — for  I  would  risk  a  great  deal  for  you — but  for  her 
sake." 

u  For  her  sake,"  repeated  Christian,  in  a  melancholy  tone,  "  eve- 
rything must  be  attempted." 

"  Not  publicly.  Jnst  think  for  a  moment  Here  is  this  young 
girl,  to  whom  you  pay  court  in  the  absence  of  her  father,  from 
whom  you  disguise  your  real  name,  and  from  whom  you  suddenly 
disappear.  Then,  on  the  other  hand,  this  young  girl  becomes  the 
talk  of  the  neighborhood,  by  attempts  being  made  to  carry  her 
off.  Finally,  Auger  m  arries  her,  and,  in  her  room,  on  her  wed- 
ding-night, there  is  an  encounter  between  her  old  lover,  a  new 
lover,  and  her  husband.  The  Count  d'Artois  and  his  page  almost 
fight  about  her,  and  the  woman  faints  between  them.  Is  not  this 
all  very  queer  ?  is  it  not  all  rather  like  the  marriage  of  Figaro  ? 
Would  you  not  laugh  at  such  a  story  yourself,  and  smile  in  doubt 
at  the  complete  innocence  and  ignorance  of  the  girl  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  poor  Ingenue  I"  said  Christian,  turning  very  pale. 

"  My  poor  fellow,  how  you  love  her  I"  said  the  Count,  touched 
by  the  sincerity  of  the  love  Christian  displayed. 

Christian  turned  away  his  head  from  the  count,  to  hide  his  emo- 
tion ;  there  was  a  momentary  pause,  when  suddenly  Christian 
exclaimecP- 

"  I  will  cflrry  her  off!    I  will  run  away  with  her  !" 
SB 


320  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  That  won't  do,  my  boy,"  said  the  prince. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  Ingenue,  after  all,  is,  unfortunately,  a  married  woman, 
and,  from  the  moment  you  carry  her  off,  Auger  has  all  the  public 
on  his  side.  We  are  decidedly  in  the  wrong,  Ingenue  and  all. 
Do  you  see  that  ?  Auger,  you  see,  is  a  contemptible  but  a  clever 
fellow,  one  who  would  take  advantage  of  everything.  I  would 
have  him  put  into  the  Bastille,  but  that  it  would  make  him  inter- 
esting, an<J  thus  serve  his  purpose." 

"  What,  then,  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Wait,  my  dear  Christian,  wait,  and  rely  on  it,  Auger  himself 
•will  furnish  us  with  the  opportunity  we  seek.  He  is  too  profound 
a  villain  to  remain  quiet.  Trust  to  my  experience,  it  will  not  be 
long  before  we  have  him  in  our  power.  Though  I  am  but  a  few 
years  older  than  yourself,  I  have  twenty  years  more  experience ; 
for  princes  learn  life  early,  and  I  say  to  you,  wait  patiently  and 
watch.  That  is  all  we  can  do." 

"  That  is  death,  for  he  has  her  in  his  power." 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  tender  point.  Come,  are  you  disposed  to  lis- 
ten to  reason  ?" 

"  To  reason " 

"  Tes  ;  come,  sit  down — nay,  I  insist — you  have  been  wounded, 
and  it  is  not  good  for  you  to  stand.  Sit  down,  I  command  you !" 

Christian  obeyed,  and  the  Count  d'Artois  then  drew  a  chair 
close  to  his,  exactly  like  two  comedy  actors  on  the  stage,  when  they 
are  going  to  have  an  explanation,  and  turning  towards  his  young 
guest,  he  began. 


FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  321 


CHAPTER    L. 

IN   WHICH    CHRISTIAN    LISTENS    TO    REASON,    PREACHED   BY   ""HE 
COUNT  D'ARTOIS. 

"  You  say  that  Ingenue  ia  in  the  power  of  this  man  ?" 

"I  do." 

"That  she  is  his?" 

"Is  she  not?" 

"  Does  she  love  you  ?" 

u  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  I" 

"  Well,  since  she  consented  to  marry  another." 

«  Yet  she  did  love  you  ?" 

"  Most  cordially !  and,  when  I  compare  myself  to  that  vile  man, 
I  cannot  but  think  that  she  loves  me  still." 

«  The  first  thing  to  be  done,  is  to  ascertain,  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  she  does.  If  she  loves  you,  she  will  never  allow  that  man  to 
touch  her." 

"  That  is  some  satisfaction." 

"  But  yet  not  quite  enough ;  but  the  rest  depends  on  Ingenue 
and  yourself." 

"  Could  not  this  marriage  be  broken  ?  But,  Auger,  by  desert- 
ing the  court,  and  by  abusing  me,  has  made  strong  partisans 
amongst  the  people.  Ingenue  is  a  child  of  the  people;  think  of 
the  outcry  that  will  be  raised,  of  the  corruption  of  which  she  will  be 
accused,  of  the  violence  with  which  all  your  journalists  will  assail 
her  and  the  corrupt  aristocracy." 

"  Does  Auger  actually  claim  the  rights  of  a  husband?" 

"That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you  ;  but  find  that  out  yourself; 
only,  take  care  to  do  it  openly.  See  Ingenue  in  such  a  manner, 
and  at  stch  a  time,  that  no  suspicion  can  be  attached  to  the  inter- 
view, for  it  would  be  an  excellent  opportunity,  to  get  rid  of  the 
14* 


322  INGENUE;  OR, 

whole  thing,  just  to  give  you  a  settler,  under  pretext  that  you  were 
his  wife's  lover.  Auger  would  be  a  made  man,  ever  after." 

"  You  see,  I  must  run  away  with  her." 

"  Well,  as  you  please,  only  I  must  then  bear  the  odium  of  the 
whole  affair,  for  I  cannot  run  away." 

"  I  cannot  allow  that  your  highness  should  suffer  for  my  sins." 

"  The  more  so,  as  I  have  sins  enough  of  my  own,  God  knows, 
and  am  not  fit  to  be  made  a  scape-goat  of.  Yet,  I  repeat,  that  I 
am  willing  to  aid  you,  and  that  you  may  rely  on  me  in  all  things  ; 
only  it  is  better  that  our  good  understanding  should  not  be  sus- 
pected. Watch  your  opportunities,  and  if  you  want  me,  come  to 
me  ;  you  will  always  find  me." 

«  What  if  I  were  to  challenge  the  fellow  ?" 

"  The  idea  is  revolting ;  besides,  you  may  be  sure  that  M.  Auger 
has  taken  precious  good  care  to  ensure  his  life  by  some  tremendous 
calumny  or  deposition  he  has  made  before  a  magistrate,  and  with 
which  he  will  threaten  us  whilst  he  lives,  and  overwhelm  us  after 
his  death,  if  we  take  means  to  kill  him.  No,  I  cannot  approve  of 
this  idea  at  all." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Do  you  see  anything  ?" 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Well,  now,  I  do,"  said  the  count,  triumphantly.  "  I  have  an 
idea — a  good  one,  too,  I  think — one  that  will  give  you  Ingenue." 

"  Oh,  Monseigneur,  my  life  is  yours  if  you  accomplish  this." 

"  Ah,  Christian,"  said  the  count,  in  a  somewhat  melancholy 
tone,  "  who  knows  but  one  day  I  may  have  to  claim  your  promise, 
and  that  your  blood  may  be  sacrificed  to  our  cause  !  Such  prom- 
ises as  you  have  made  had  no  meaning  some  years  ago — they  have 
one,  now." 

"  Whatever  meaning  they  may  have,"  replied  Christian,  "  I 
repeat  my  words — my  life  is  yours." 

"  Well,  now,  Christian,  to  return  to  the  point,  our  object  is  to 
get  entire  possession  of  this  charming  little  woman.  The  difficulty 
is.  to  do  it  in  a  way  which  shall  satisfy  all  scruples." 

« If  possible." 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  323 

"  I  scarcely  think  it  is.  If  you  run  away  with  her,  her  old  father 
will  be  left  alone ;  or,  if  he  goes  with  you,  certainly  the  position 
will  be  anything  but  a  strictly  moral  one.  Although  old  father 
Eetif  has  written  some  strangely  liberal  philosophy  in  his  works, 
you  see  his  principles  do  not  affect  his  way  of  bringing  up  his 
daughter,  which  is  strictly  orthodox  ;  so  that  he  would  never  sanc- 
tion this  running-away  business." 

"  Never !" 

"  Now  for  the  divorce.  You  will  get  into  the  hands  of  lawyers, 
and  papers  and  memorials  will  be  published  on  both  sides,  iu 
which  both  wife  and  husband  will  so  effectually  destroy  each  other's 
character,  that  poor  Ingenue  will  have  no  reputation  left,  and 
possibly  her  husband  may  be  proved  to  be  the  injured  party ;  for 
a  lawyer  can  do  anything,  you  know." 

"  Your  highness  is  right,  again,"  said  Christian,  with  a  sigh. 

"Well,  now  for  the  duel.  Of  course  you  suppose  that  you 
would  certainly  kill  your  maa,  because,  to  allow  him  to  kill  you, 
and  thus  retain  quiet  and  undisputed  possession  of  Ingenue,  would 
be  absurd.  Well,  let  us  suppose  that  you  kill  him.  The  plain 
fact  with  the  public  stands  thus.  Here  is  a  young  fellow,  in  love 
with  a  pretty  woman,  who,  to  get  rid  of  her  husband,  sends  the 
poor  mau  into  the  other  world.  Now  the  moralists  of  this  world, 
with  my  brother,  the  king,  at  their  head,  are  most  devoutly  shocked 
at  such  a  proceeding,  and  it  would  go  hard  with  you,  Christian,  I 
promise  you.  Even  if,  through  the  influence  of  the  queen,  I  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  you  out  of  this  scrape,  remember  you  could  not 
take  the  widow  of  your  victim  either  for  a  wife  or  a  mistress ;  so 
nothing  would  be  gained  by  that.  As  to  assassinating  Auger, 
it  ritalienne,  you  and  I  are  too  brave  for  that  Now  you  see  that  I 
have  shown  you  the  utter  impossibility  of  these  three  plans  you 
proposed,  and  exposed  the  whole  case  with  an  eloquence  worthy  of 
Fenelon  or  Bourdaloue." 

••  And  yet  your  highness  said  you  had  an  idea." 

"  So  I  have,  but  I  have  not  revealed  it,  yet" 

"  But  your  highness " 

"  My  highness  is  about,  now,  to  give  you  the  full  benefit  of  this 
2B« 


324  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

brilliant  idea.  Give  me  all  your  attention.  My  idea  is  composed 
of  three  ideas— the  first  is,  to  leave  Ingenue  in  Paris,  with  her 
father " 

"  And  her  husband  I"  exclaimed  Christian. 

"  Oh,  if  you  interrupt  me,  I  shall  never  get  on.  Let  Ingenue 
remain  in  Paris  with  her  father.  Secondly,  to  hush  up  the  adven- 
ture of  last  night.  Thirdly,  take  the  most  precious  care  of  our 
dear  M.  Auger.  If  you  jump  in  this  manner,  I  won't  go  on." 

"  I  am  all  attention." 

"  Well,  you  must  know,  then,  that  I  have,  in  various  parts  of 
Paris,  a  number  of  houses ;  some  in  populous  streets,  some  in  quiet, 
retired  corners,  with  waving  trees  and  pretty  gardens — well,  if  I 
were  in  your  place,  having  ascertained  that  Mademoiselle  Ingenue 
loved  me — you  observe  that  I  say  Mademoiselle  Ingenue " 

"  Ah,  but  is  it  so  ?"  sighed  Christian. 

"  I  know  it  is,  from  the  best  authority — from  her  husband." 

"Ah!  thank  God  1" 

"Well,  this  point  settled,"  continued  the  prince,  "  I  should  in- 
spire Mile.  Ingenue  with  an  intense  desire  to  revenge  herself  on 
her  husband.  Women,  even  the  best  of  them,  like  a  little  revenge, 
and  enjoy  a  little  intrigue,  and,  surely  lugenue  is  fully  justified. 
But  to  return  to  the  houses.  I  should  select  one  of  them — 
supposing,  always,  I  were  in  your  place — one  of  the  most  soli- 
tary ;  one  with  a  garden  and  waving  trees  ;  and  there  I  should 
conduct  my  Ingenue,  the  real  wife  of  my  heart,  and  there,  with 
the  husband  of  her  choice,  I  should  establish  myself  in  a  happy 
home — for  three  or  four  hours,  every  day. 

"  Thus  you  will  be  perfectly  happy — I  mean,  I  should — however, 
if  you  like  my  plan,  we  will  change  the  tune,  and  suppose  it  is  of 
you  that  I  am  speaking.  Well,  here  you  make  a  home  for  Ingenue, 
in  which  she  has  every  luxury — you  are  rich,  I  believe ;  if  not,  I 
am,  and  you  can  draw  on  my  exchequer  for  all  you  want.  Money, 
my  dear  Christian,  cannot  buy  everything  ;  for  instance,  there  are 
many  women  whom  the  riches  of  Cro3sus  would  not  help  you  to 
obtain  ;  but  if  not  to  obtain,  money  is  essential  to  retain,  even  the 
best  of  them.  Well,  your  pretty  wife  will  find  all  her  wishes  grat- 


THE   FIRST  DAYS  OF   BLOOD.  325 

Ified  in  the  home  you  will  give  her,  and  will  learn  how  to  support, 
with  exemplary  patience,  the  privations  of  the  home  M.  Auger 
will  give  her.  Nay,  I  am  sure  Ingenue  will  find  out  a  thousand 
ways  of  making  all  the  privations  fall  on  him,  until  he  is  provoked 
into  some  outburst  of  passion,  into  some  act  of  violence.  Then  we 
have  him  ;  then  we  can  be  separated  ;  and  the  pity  and  sympathy 
of  the  world  is  for  the  poor  young  wife — and  M.  Auger  is  disposed 
of." 

"  Admirable." 

"  Or  we  put  money  in  Monsieur  Anger's  way,  if  we  can't  pro- 
voke him,  and  Monsieur  Anger  cannot  resist  the  temptation,  and 
he  appropriates  the  money,  and  we  send  him  beyond  seas,  and  so 
we  get  rid  of  him.  Meanwhile,  you  will  have  restored  Ingenue 
to  happiness,  made  the  old  father  happy,  and,  as  to  yourself,  you 
will  be  the  happiest  man  on  earth,  having  all  the  illusions  and 
charms  of  love  and  marriage  without  any  of  its  alloys.  As  for  the 
house,  choose  it,  I  have  plenty ;  as  for  the  pretext  of  Ingenue's 
absence,  that  is  easily  found ;  for,  Ingenue,  too  proud  to  accept 
anything  from  her  husband,  will  determine  to  work  by  the  day, 
and  to  owe  her  support  to  none  but  herself.  And  so  you  arc  per- 
fectly happy." 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  wish." 

"  Well,"  continued  the  prince,  "  this  will  last  for  a  whole 
year." 

"  For  ray  whole  life." 

"For  two  years — for  three  years;  for  you  are  young,  and 
Ingenue  is  very  fascinating.  Then  Mile.  Auger  will  begin  to  sigh 
and  M.  Christian  to  reflect ;  and  when  reflection  comes,  love 
stealthily  glides  away.  You  have  increasing  duties  to  the  world 
which  take  up  your  time  and  leave  but  an  hour  instead  of  three 
for  Ingenue.  Ingenue  cries ;  but  she,  too,  knows  the  world  better, 
and  she  accepts  a  handsome  pension.  Then,  you  listen  to  your 
mother's  suggestions  and  to  mine — I  give  you  a  regiment,  she 
gives  you>  a  wife — and  a  wife  with  a  dower;  the  king  gives  you  the 
cross  of  St.  Louis,  and  the  world  admires  you,  and  you  are  still  a 


326  INGBNUE  J    OR, 

happy  man.  Is  not  this  a  pretty  theory  ?  and  do  I  not  compose 
a  tale  as  well  as  M.  Eetif  de  la  Bretonne?" 

"  Your  highness  forgets,"  said  Christian,  "  that  a  lover  is  an 
invalid  who  will  not  listen  to  a  physician " 

"  And  who  hugs  his  malady.  True ;  but  remember,  Christian, 
my  tale  is  an  o'er  true  one,  and  will  come  to  pass — rich  wife  and 
all — see  if  it  does  not." 

"  Well,  I  will  try  the  beginning,  at  any  rate,"  said  Christian, 
u  leaving  the  end  to  time  and  fate." 

"  That  is  bravely  resolved  ;  go,  and  may  Cupid  assist  you !" 

With  these  words  the  count  rose,  and  Christian  took  his  leave, 
whilst  the  count  went  humming  a  tune,  fully  persuaded  that  he 
had  converted  this  love-sick  youth  into  a  philosopher  of  his  own 
gay  school. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

AN     INSTANCE     OF     SYMPATHY. 

THE  first  thing  Christian  did  on  his  return  home  was  to  sit 
down  and  write  a  letter  to  Ingenue.  It  was  conceived  in  the 
following  terms : 

"  MADAM — It  is  impossible,  after  what  has  occurred,  that  you 
should  not  have  important  explanations  to  give  me.  I  have, 
madam,  most  important  revelations  to  make  to  you  ;  therefore,  it 
is  necessary  I  should  see  you.  I  propose  that  to-morrow,  at  three 
o'clock,  you  should  proceed  to  the  stand  of  coaches  in  the  Rue  St. 
Antoine,  there  you  will  find  me;  if  you  get  into  one  of  the 
coaches,  I  shall  come  up  to  it  and  get  in  with  you,  and  then  we 
can  drive  off  together.  Or,  should  you  prefer  it,  I  will  come  to 
your  own  house,  if  you  are  at  liberty  to  receive  me.  In  this,  please 
yourself,  and  suit  your  own  convenience. 

Your  sincere  friend, 

CHRISTIAN,  Count  Olinski." 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  327 

Scarcely  Lad  Christian  fiuished  this  note  before  a  messenger  put 
into  his  bands  a  note  from  Ingenue.  It  ran  thus : 

"Sra — You  came  last  night,  probably,  to  explain  your  own 
conduct  and  that  of  others.  I  am  in  want  of  a  friend  ;  you  will 
not  fail  me,  I  know.  To-morrow,  therefore,  I  must  see  you.  At 
three  o'clock  I  shall  leave  my  house,  and,  proceeding  to  the  stand 
in  the  Faubourg  St  Antoine,  there  get  into  one  of  the  coaches. 
I  shall  ostensibly  be  taken  to  the  Rue  des  Bernardins,  but  after- 
wards I  shall  go  to  tho  Jardin  des  Plantes ;  meet  me  there,  I  shall 
wait  for  you.  INGENUE." 

Christian's  heart  bounded  with  joy  at  this  evidence  of  sympathy, 
and  after  reading  Ingenue's  letter,  he  no  longer  doubted  of  her 
love. 

Still,  Christian,  though  young  and  ardent,  was  a  man  of  intense 
delicacy  of  feeling,  and  of  great  resolution ;  he  determined  to 
gacri6ce  his  life  to  his  love,  but  he  resolved  first  to  ascertain 
whether  that  love  was  worthy  of  the  sacrifice,  pure  and  equal  to 
his  own. 

Going  first  into  his  mother's  apartment,  setting  her  mind  at  rest 
as  to  the  journey  at  which  he  had  hinted  the  night  previously,  he 
then  assumed  a  disguise,  and  repaired  towards  nighWall  to  the 
Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 

Towards  eight  o'clock,  Auger  entered  the  house.  Christian's 
heart  bounded  as  he  passed  him,  but  he  prudently  restrained  his 
anger.  He  looked  up  at  the  windows.  There  was  a  light  in 
Retifs  apartment;  presently  another  appeared,  indicating  that 
Auger's  first  visit  had  been  for  his  father-in-law.  After  a  short 
conversation  the  light  was  taken  up,  and  Auger  evidently  entered 
Inpenue's  room. 

Christian's  heart  beat  and  his  step  faltered  as  he  saw  him  set 
down  the  light. 

As  Auger  entered,  a  figure,  evidently  Ingenue's,  rose.  Aug-or, 
by  his  gesticulations,  was  talking  vehemently ;  then  he  suddenly  fell 
on  his  knees. 

Then,  instantly,  the  form  Christian  knew  to  be  that  of  Ingenue, 


328  ING^XCK  ;  OR, 

rushed  to   the  window,  and  her  voice,  in  loud  and  threatening 
expostulation,  reached  him. 

.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  what  she  was  saying  ;  though  her 
words  did  not  reach  him,  her  tone  and  her  attitude  were  so  full  of 
dignity  and  menace,  that  Christian  was  more  than  once  tempted 
to  rush  to  her  aid,  lest,  in  a  fit  of  frenzy,  she  should  precipitate 
herself  from  the  window,  and  fall  at  his  feet. 

After  some  time,  Auger  evidently  withdrew  from  the  window, 
and  it  was  closed  ;  both  lights  then  disappeared.  Still  Christian 
watched  ;  but  presently,  Auger  came  out  of  the  house  and  walked 
precipitately  towards  the  Boulevards ;  twice,  however,  he  turned 
back  and  looked  suspiciously  around,  but  Christian  contrived  to 
elude  his  vigilance. 

Presently,  the  curtains  of  Ingenue's  window  were  let  down,  and, 
from  behind  them,  Christian  saw  gleaming  the  pale  light  of  the 
night-lamp,  and  knew  that  the  young  girl  slept. 

Christian  then  returned  home,  his  heart  filled  with  joy. 

Thank  Heaven,  said  he,  as  he  lay  down  on  his  pillow,  she  has 
as  much  spirit  and  courage  as  she  has  love ;  and  he  went  to  sleep, 
and  dreamed  of  the  house  with  the  waving  trees,  of  which  the 
Count  d'Artois  had  spoken  to  him. 

It  is  time,  now,  to  see  in  what  manner  Retif  de  la  Bretonne  had 
taken  his  daughter's  marriage,  and  the  strange  events  which  fol- 
lowed it.  He  had  felt  very  proud,  as  he  conducted  this  beautiful 
girl  to  the  altar,  and  thought  that  she  did  infinite  credit  to  hia 
education  and  the  principles  of  Jean  Jacques,  in  which  he  had 
brought  her  up.  On  his  return  from  church,  he  had  thought  it 
necessary  to  talk  to  her  about  her  duties  as  a  wife  and  a  mother  ; 
but,  seeing  that  Ingenue  looked  quietly  at  him,  and  appeared 
neither  awed  nor  embarrassed,  he  made  his  speech  very  short. 

After  giving  his  daughter  his  blessing,  Retif  had  retired  to  his 
own  room,  with  the  intention  of  composing  a  sort  of  epithalamium  ; 
but  Bacchus,  to  use  his  own  metaphors,  had  been  stronger  than 
Apollo  and  the  Muses,  and  Retif,  under  the  influence  of  the  mar- 
riage feast,  had  fallen  fast  asleep. 

As  for  his  not  having  heard  anything  that  went  on  afterwards, 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  329 

it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  when  we  remember  that  his  apartment 
was  separated  from  that  of  his  daughter  by  the  landing,  and  that 
all  the  actors  in  these  various  scenes  were  interested  in  not  attract- 
ing attention. 

The  next  morning,  however,  towards  nine  o'clock,  seeing  no 
signs  of  either  his  daughter  or  his  son-in-law,  he  ventured  into  her 
apartment 

To  his  great  astonishment,  he  found  her  up  and  dressed,  and 
looking  round,  he  saw  no  signs  of  Auger. 

No  sooner  did  Ingenue  perceive  her  father,  than  she  threw  her- 
self into  his  arms,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Aha !"  said  Retif,  with  a  smile.  "  And  where  is  the  happy 
husband  ?" 

Ingenue  looked  gravely  up  at  Retif.  This  tone  of  raillery 
struck  painfully  upon  her. 

Alarmed  by  her  manner,  her  father  pushed  her  gently  from  him, 
and  looked  steadily  at  her.  Ingenue  looked  so  pale,  so  utterly 
forlorn,  so  sincerely  miserable,  that  the  facetious  author  of  so 
many  facetious  and  erotic  stories,  was  greatly  puzzled.  Still,  he 
returned  to  his  first  idea,  that  Auger  alone  could  explain  this  mys- 
tery. 

"  Where  is  Auger?"  he  repeated. 

"  Gone  out,  I  suppose,"  said  Ingenue. 

"  Hem !"  said  Retif ;  "  has  he  breakfasted  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Not  breakfast  with  his  wife  on  the  day  after  his  marriage !  I 
don't  understand  it  at  all." 

Again  Retif  looked  steadily  at  Ingenue ;  but  her  looks  disclosed 
nothing. 

"  Ingenue,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  you  are  no  longer  a  child,  you 
are  a  woman  ;  and  young  girls,  and  women,  and  husbands,  and — " 
said  Retif,  not  knowing  how  to  go  on  ;  "  if  your  mother  had  been 
alive,  she  would  have  explained  everything  to  you  ;  but  hang  me 
if  I  know  what  to  say  to  you  at  all !" 

Ingenue  neither  blushed  nor  simpered;  but,  wiping  her  eyesf 
calmly  said — 


330  INGENUE  ;   OK, 

"  Let  us  go  to  breakfast." 

"  To  breakfast  without  your  husband !" 

"  If  you  mean  Monsieur  Auger,"  said  Ingenue ;  "  if  he  wants 
any  breakfast,  he  must  learn  to  come  at  the  right  hour." 

"The  devil!"  said  Retif;  "you  are  beginning  early.  I  am 
afraid  he  will  have  a  hard  life"." 

"  Don't  speak  any  more  of  him,  if  you  please." 

"  Not  speak  any  more  of  your  husband !  I'm  astonished  at 
you,  Ingenue !  Must  I  so  soon  remind  you  of  the  duties  you  owe 
to  your  husband  ?" 

"  I  owe  no  duties  to  Monsier  Auger — I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him." 

"Nothing  to  do  with  the  man  you  married!    What  do  you 


"  I  mean  what  I  say,  father  :  you  know  I  always  say  the  truth." 
" The  truth,"  thought  Retif;  "I  wonder  what  is  the  truth!" 
and  he  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  small  metaphysical  discussion  with 
himself,  on  the  strange  nature  and  temper  of  woman-kind.  "  Ei- 
ther," said  he  to  himself,  "he  has  been  too  bold  or  too  timid." 
And  then  he  went  on  to  discuss  with  himself  which  of  these 
offences  a  woman  was  most  likely  to  forgive.  And  then  he  referred 
back  to  the  experience  of  his  early  days ;  but  he  failed  to  recall 
any  instance  in  which  he  had  been  too  timed. 

Still  absorbed  in  these  pleasant  reminiscences,  he  led  his  daugh- 
ter into  their  new  dining-room,  where,  waited  on  by  Ingenue's 
iiew  servant,  they  sat  down  to  a  very  disconsolate  breakfast. 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  331 


CHAPTER    LII. 

WHAT    WAS    GOING    ON    IV    INGENUE'S    ROOM   WHILST   CHRISTIAN 
WAS    WATCHING    IN   THE    STREET. 

RETTF  and  Ingenue  sat  opposite  each  other  in  silence.  Nothing 
in  his  daughter's  manner  had  helped  him  to  explain  her  strange 
conduct.  After  breakfast,  she  sat  down  calmly  to  work,  as  she 
had  done  formerly,  and,  to  all  appearances,  nothing  was  changed, 
except  that  she  was  gentler  and  more  melancholy  than  ever. 

Retif  was  a  little  surprised  to  see  that  Auger  did  not  return 
during  the  day ;  but  he  attributed  his  absence  to  some  quarrel 
which  he  knew  to  be  as  common  to  newly-married  people  as  to 
those  who  had  been  united  for  years.  He  knew,  however,  that 
these  early  quarrels  were  not  dangerous,  and  that,  like  lovers'  quar- 
rels, they  were  easily  made  up. 

Towards  evening,  Auger  returned.  Retif  looked  at  him,  expect- 
ing  to  find  him  haughty  and  sullen  but.  to  his  great  surprise,  he 
saw  he  was  humble  and  subdual. 

"  There  you  are,  at  last,"  said  he.  beginning  the  conversation. 
"  Where  have  you  been  wandering,  all  day,  far  from  the  conjugal 
roof?" 

"  Prom  the  conjugal  roof !"  said  Auger  to  himself ;  "  has  Inge- 
nue really  said  nothing  to  her  father  ?  Wandering  !"  added  he 
aloud,  "  I  have  been  about  M.  Reveillon's  business." 

"  Come,  my  good  fellow,  make  a  clear  breast  of  it.  Confess, 
confess !"  said  Retif,  in  a  jocular  strain. 

"  If  he  does  know  the  truth,  he  takes  it  pretty  well,  at  any  rate ; 
but  then  these  journalists,  they  are  always  attacking  the  morality 
of  others,  and  are  at  heart  the  most  corrupt  men  on  earth." 

"  So  you  have  already  contrived  to  quarrel  ?"  said  Retif,  trying 
to  come  to  the  point 

«  Really,  I " 

"  Nay,  never  blush,  man.    You  were  too  ardent,  and  frightened 
the  timid  Graces.    Was  that  the  case  ?" 
10 


332  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  By  heaven,  he  knows  nothing !"  said  Auger  to  himself,  with  a 
sort  of  mixed  feeling  of  satisfaction  and  regret ;  for  the  revelation  hud 
still  to  be  made,  and  he  had  fancied  it  over.  "  Suppose  I  tell  him 
myself?  And  yet,  no ;  if  Ingenue  has  said  nothing  yet,  she  has 
determined  not  to  speak.  She  will  conceal  the  prince,  on  condi- 
tion that  I  say  nothing  about  the  page.  That  is  probably  her  game." 

Having  thus  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the  state  of  things,  Auger 
listened  patiently  to  the  metaphorical  and  flowery  speeches  of  his 
father-in-law,  on  his  having  affrighted  the  Graces,  and  then  repaired 
into  his  wife's  apartment. 

She  was  expecting  him,  and  received  him  as  he  deserved.  Fall- 
ing on  his  knees,  he  strove  to  appeal  to  her  pity. 

"  Forgive  me,  Ingenue,"  said  he  ;  "I  am  not  so  guilty  as  you 
think.  I  yielded  to  threats— to  force.  The  Count  d'Artois  threat- 
ened me  with  the  Bastille,  and  you  and  your  father  with  perpetual 
imprisonment,  .if  I  did  not  yield  to  his  wishes.  What  could  I  do  ?" 

Ingenue  smiled  with  contempt ;  that  was  her  only  reply. 

"  Oh,  Ingenue,  what  could  I  do  ?  Kill  the  prince  ?  that  was  to 
condemn  us  all  to  the  scaffold.  I  trusted  that,  deceived  by  the 
darkness,  you  would  never  know  the  insult  that  had  been  offered  to 
you,  and  that  you  would  rest  in  peace,  in  happiness,  ever  after  by 
my  side ;  indeed,  I  did.  Be  merciful,  since  heaven  itself  interfered 
to  save  you.  Fear  had  turned  my  brain — I  knew  not  what  I  did." 

"  Silence !"  said  Ingenue ;  "  do  you  think  to  justify  a  crime,  by 
invoking  your  own  cowardice  ?  for  shame.  So,  sir,  I  have  mar- 
ried a  coward  !  The  man  who  was  by  God  and  man  enjoined  to 
defend  and  to  sustain  me,  gives  me  on  my  wedding-night  into  the 
arms  of  another,  because  he  is  afraid  !  Shame,  sir — and  you  dare 
ask  me  to  forgive  you.  Rather  would  I  forgive  your  crime  than 
your  cowardice.  For  shame,  sir !" 

Auger  remained  on  his  knees,  with  his  hands  clasped  implor- 
ingly. 

"  Get  up,  sir,  or  remain  on  your  knees,  as  you  please.  I  care 
not  what  becomes  of  you." 

"  Give  me  at  least  hope." 

"  Hope  of  what  ?" 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  333 

"  Of  forgiveness." 

"Never  I" 

"  How  are  we  then  to  live  ?" 

"  As  we  did  before  our  marriage." 

"  Separated  ?" 
•    "Most  completely." 

«  But  the  world " 

"I  don't  care  for  the  world." 

"  But  the  world  will  suspect " 

"Then  I  can  tell  all" 

"  Bat  I  shall  be  a  lost  man." 

"  I  should  not  care  for  that." 

"  But  your  father  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know  my  father  believes  implicitly  everything  I  say. 
I  shall  tell  him  that  you  have  inspired  me  with  a  most  invincible 
horror,  and  he  will  believe  me,  and  have  a  right  to  believe  me,  for 
it  is  the  truth." 

"  And  I,  madam,  will  tell  him  that  you  have  a  lover." 

"  Perhaps,  you,  too,  will  tell  the  truth." 

"  I  am  your  husband,  madam,  and  will  kill  him." 

"  Take  care  that  he  does  not  kill  you." 

Anger,  who  had  risen  a  little  before  this,  drew  back  as  he  gazed 
on  her  flashing  eye  and  threatening  attitude. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  kill  Monsieur  Christian." 

"He  is  your  lover,  is  he  not ?" 

"  And  you  mean  to  kill  him — did  you  not  say  so  ?  did  you  not 
threaten  me  with  this?" 

"  No,  Ingenue — I  implore,  I  do  not  threaten." 

"  Cease  this  vain  discussion.    I  am  weary  of  it." 

"  What  is  to  become  of  me  ?" 

"  I  do  not  care  in  the  least" 

"  But  where  am  I  to  eat?" 

"  You  can  eat  at  table  with  my  father  and  myself." 

"But  sleep?" 

"  Anywhere.    There  is  a  room  above,  you  can  take  that" 

«  That  is  impossible." 


334  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  Then  find  another." 

"  I  shall  stay  here,  in  this  room,  for  I  have  the  right,  and  I'll  use 
it" 

"  And  I  will  call  my  father." 

Auger  ground  his  teeth. 

"  My  turn  will  come,  however  ;  I  will  find  means  to  reduce  you 
to  obedience." 

"  Do  not  try  any  of  your  tricks  on  me,  sir  ;  for  even  should  they 
succeed,  so  sure  as  I  find  them  out,  I  will  kiH  you  like  a  dog  ;  rely 
on  it." 

"  A  nice  young  girl,  upon  my  word  ;  innocent  and  ingenuous !" 

"  True  to  her  word,  also,  as  you  shall  find." 

"  So  you  turn  me  out  ?" 

"  Of  my  room,  but  not  of  the  house." 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  accept  the  compromise." 

"  As  you  please." 

"  Farewell,  madam." 

"  Good  night,  sir." 

And  so  it  was  that  Auger  left  his  wife's  apartment,  on  the  eve- 
ning that  Christian  was  watching  under  her  window. 


CHAPTER    LIU. 

THE     JARDIN     DBS     PLANTES. 

THIS  garden,  then  frequently  called  the  Jardin  du  Eoi,  was  not 
as  much  frequented  in  those  days  as  now. 

In  the  first  place,  there  were  fewer  inhabitants  in  Paris,  and  far 
fewer  quadrupeds  in  the  gardens. 

There  were  none  of  those  magnificent  jackals  and  wild  beasts  of 
Africa  which  the  conquest  of  Algiers  has  brought  over. 

There  was  not  the  poetical  and  melancholy  giraffe,  whose  death 
has  caused  so  much  regret  and  sorrow  to  the  frequenters  of  the 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  335 

gardens.  Not  only  were  these  animals  not  there,  but  strange  to 
say,  the  savants  of  those  days  even  denied  their  very  existence,  and 
ranked  them  amongst  the  fabulous  creations  of  poesy,  like  the  uni- 
corn and  the  basalisk. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  which  was  once  more  to  re-unite  the 
lovers,  there  fell  one  of  those  little  drizzling  rains,  which  effectually 
prevent  all  mere  wanderers  from  wandering  into  public  promenades, 
but  is  considered  favorable  to  lovers,  for  they  are  sure  of  being 
alone — and  fishermen,  for  the  fish  are  sure  to  bite. 

This  little  drizzling  rain,  is  so  refreshing  in  spring,  pattering  upon 
the  young,  green  leaves  and  watering  the  thirsty  flowers — so  melan- 
choly in  autumn,  bringing  down  the  last  leaves  and  scattering  the 
late  blooming  flowers  1 

At  the  appointed  hour  Ingenue  left  her  house,  and  proceeding 
to  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  took  her  coach  and  drove  to  the 
gardens. 

Christian,  of  course,  was  already  there.  At  eleven  o'clock, 
nnable  to  wait  till  his  clock  should  have  the  kindness  to  strike  the 
hour  he  so  much  longed  for,  he  had  rushed  out  and  proceeded 
towards  the  gardens.  He,  too,  took  a  hackney  coach,  and,  although 
this  estimable  vehicle  was  as  slow  as  such  vehicles  usually  are,  and 
took  one  hour  to  go  from  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore  to  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Antoine,  Christian  got  to  his  appointment  just  one  hour 
and  forty-eight  minutes  too  soon. 

Christian,  therefore,  repaired  to  the  little  grove  formed  by  the 
chestnut  trees,  then  in  full  bloom,  through  whose  thick  foliage  the 
rain  could  not  penetrate,  and  sat  himself  down,  watching  every 
vehicle  which  stopped  at  the  gates  he  could  easily  see  from  the 
position  he  had  taken. 

At  length  the  much  desired  coach  arrived.  It  was  a  green 
coach — so  green  that  the  trees,  supposed  to  have  the  monopoly  of 
that  color,  looked  perfectly  yellow  beside  it  From  this  green 
coach,  like  a  very  goddess  from  her  car,  descended  Ingenue.  She 
had  on  one  of  her  new  dresses,  from  her  wedding  trousseau ;  one 
of  the  dresses  indicating  her  new  dignity  of  a  married  woman.  It 
was  made  of  black  silk,  with  a  quantity  of  ruches  and  pinked 
2C* 


336  INGENUE;  OR, 

trimmings,  much  worn  in  those  days;  a  black  lace  scarf, was 
thrown  over  her  shoulders  ;  a  grey  and  pink  bonnet  encircled  her 
sweet,  smiling  face ;  and  her  shoes  were  of  black  satin,  with  high 
heels  and  large  buckles.  With  this,  she  had  an  air  and  a  grace 
which  made  young  and  old  turn  round  to  look  at  her.  No  sooner 
had  she  entered  the  garden  than  she  perceived  Christian,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  the  demure  but  blushing  emotion  with  which, 
her  broad  silk  dress  rustling  voluptuously  around  her,  she  hastened 
towards  him. 

Christian,  who  had  seen  her,  of  course  came  hastening  on,  and 
so  they  met ;  and  no  one  being  by  to  see  them,  thanks  to  the  blessed 
little  drizzling  rain,  they  took  each  other  by  the  hand. 

Then  they  looked  at  each  other,  a  long,  long  look,  began  with 
love  and  tenderness,  and  ending  almost  in  tears. 

Christian  was  changed  and  pale  from  his  long  illness  ;  Ingenue 
was  pale  from  sorrow,  and  embarrassed,  too,  for  now  the  boldness 
of  her  meeting,  and  the  strange  position  in  which  she  stood, 
appeared  for  the  first  time  to  overcome  her. 

Christian,  who  had  come  to  meet  her,  his  head  full  of  the  theories 
of  M.  le  Count  d'Artois,  felt  his  heart  sink  within  him.  He  led 
her  to  a  bench,  and  there  they  sat  down  side  by  side. 

As  in  Dante,  Francesca  first  tells  her  tale  of  woe,  so  was  it 
with  Ingenue  who  spoke  first. 

"  At  length  I  see  you  again,  Monsieur  Christian,"  said  she. 

"  Ah !  why,  madam,  did  you  not  send  for  me  sooner  ?'' 

«  Sooner  ?" 

"Yes,  before  that  fatal  day." 

"Ah,  had  you  not  forgotten,  forsaken  me  ?" 

'•You  cannot  have  thought  it,"  said  Christian,  in  a  tone  of 
reproach. 

"  Was  it  not  so?"  said  the  young  girl,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Did  you  not,  then,  know  what  kept  me  from  you  ?" 

"  Your  own  will,  your  own  inconstancy,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  Heavens !"  said  the  page,  "  do  you  not  see  how  pale  I  am  ; 
do  you  not  see  that  I  can  only  walk  by  the  help  of  this  cane  ?" 

"  Oh,  Christian !  what  has  happened  to  you  ?" 


THE   FIRST   DAY3   OF   BLOOD.  337 

"I  was  wounded,  cruelly  wounded— a  little  higher,  and  I  should 
have  been  killed." 

"  Were  you,  then,  the  page  spoken  of  in  the  paper  ?" 

"  I  was." 

"  Oh,  Christian,  my  father  declared  to  me  that  it  was  not  you." 

"  And  yet  he  saw  me  fall,  and  yet  it  was  to  him  I  said,  as  I 
fainted, '  Tell  her  I  loved  her  with  my  last  breath.' " 

"  Oh,  Heavens  I"  said  Ingenue,  "  and  why  did  you  not  send  for 
me?" 

"  Because  I  was  a  whole  week  in  a  high  delirium,  and  when 
I  came  to  I  was  so  surrounded  that  I  could  not.  As  soon  as  1 
could,  I  wrote  to  you," 

"  I  never  received  any  letter." 

"  I  know  you  did  not,  for  here  they  both  are ;  I  never  dared  to 
send  them  ;  but  now  read  them." 

Ingenue  put  them  aside.  She  was  afraid  to  read  them  in  pres- 
ence of  him  who  wrote  them,  lest  he,  in  his  turn,  should  read  her 
love  and  her  emotion  on  her  features. 

"  Read  them,  they  will  justify  me,"  said  Christian. 

Ingenue  thought  she  had  found  a  middle  course,  so  she  took  the 
letters,  and,  putting  them  in  her  bosom,  with  a  sigh,  said — 

"  I  knew  there  was  a  mystery." 

"  How  so  ?" 

«  Why,  when  I  heard  M.  Santerre  say  that  one  of  the  Count 
d'Artois'  pages  had  been  wounded,  and  carried  to  the  Ecuries,  I 
felt  it  was  you,  and  set  out  to  see  you,  but  then " 

Then  Ingenue  related  her  expedition,  her  encounter  with  Marat, 
and  the  interposition  of  Charlotte  Corday. 

"  Fate  was  against  us,"  said  Christian. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  come  one  day  sooner  ?"  asked  Ingenue, 
anxious  to  hear  her  lover  fully  justify  himself. 

"  The  day  I  discovered  you  were  married,  on  the  very  day  it  took 
place,  was  the  very  first  day  I  had  been  out.  I  went  first  to  the 
Rue  des  Bernardins,  then  to  the  Rue  St.  Antoine.  There  I  learned 
your  marriage ;  there,  by  chance,  I  overheard  Auger  speak  to  a 
stranger  who  was  waiting  for  him  ;  saw  Auger  leave  the  house,  the 
15 


338  INGENUE;  OR, 

stranger  enter,  and,  after  watching  in  agony  for  an  hour,  beheld 
him  come  out,  tore  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  discovered  the 
prince." 

"  Most  unworthy  of  the  title,"  said  Ingenue. 

"  Oh,  no,  Ingenue ;  do  not  say  that,  for  yon  are  mistaken ;  he  is 
the  most  noble  and  the  most  generous  of  men  !" 

"  What !  can  you  defend  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  had  it  not  been  for  the  prince,  I  should  not  be  now 
here ;  I  should  have  died  of  despair  and  anguish.  Oh,  Ingenue ! 
he  has  told  me  that  you  are  as  free  as  you  ever  were ;  that  you  are 
not  the  wife  of  this  vile  man  ;  that  you  can  yet  be  mine." 

Ingenue  blushed  very  red,  and  looked  so  beautiful  that  Christian 
felt  more  in  love  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  Ingenue,  how  could  you  doubt  me  ? — I  who  never  spent  a 
moment  without  thinking  of  you ! — I  who  raved  of  you ! — I  who 
looked  on  you  as  my  wife !  But  I  will  not  reproach  you ;  I  know 
you  must  reproach  yourself  more  than  I  can  do." 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Ingenue.  "I  obeyed 'my  father,  and 
the  anger  and  resentment  I  felt " 

"  Anger  and  resentment  against  me  ?  oh,  Ingenue ! — against  me 
— wounded  and  suffering !" 

"  But  I  did  not  know  that,"  replied  Ingenue ;  "  and  now  that 
you  are  returned,  you  love  me  less  than  you  did." 

"  Love  you  less,  Ingenue !  do  not  say  that.  I  love  you  more 
than  ever." 

"  You  love  me,"  said  Ingenue  ;  "  and  I  am  no  longer  free." 

"  No  longer  free,  Ingenue  ?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  have  I  not  a  husband  ?" 

"  Are  you  speaking  seriously,  Ingenue  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am." 

"  But,  if  you  do  not  love  this  man,  you  are  not  bound  to  him. 
And  you  despise  him  and  love  me." 

"  I  do  love  you ;  but  when  I  saw  you  so  suddenly  appear  before 
me,  I  hated  you,  for  I  felt  you  had  caused  the  misfortune  of  my 
life." 

"  Oh,  Ingenue  1" 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OF   BLOOD.  339 

"  Had  I  not  loved  you,  had  I  not  felt  your  scorn  so  deeply,  had 
I  not  been  so  humbled  by  your  abandonment,  I  should  never  have 
been  in  the  power  of  this  wretch." 

"  You  call  him  a  wretch,  and  yet  feel  bound  to  him  ?" 

"  Not  to  him,  but  to  God,  who  registered  my  vows." 

"  But  God  registers  nothing  in  Heaven  that  is  wrong  on  earth. 
You  are  not  married  to  him,  but  to  the  man  who  loves  you." 

"  No  sophistry,  Christian.  I  know  my  duties ;  I  know  my  fate. 
I  do  not  deceive  myself ;  I  am  wretched,  but  resigned." 

"  But,  Ingenue,  this  is  no  sophistry.  I  tell  you  that  we  could 
drag  this  man  before  the  tribunals,  and  they  would  make  you  free, 
were  it  not  that  we  dread  and  hate  the  terrible  scandal  of  such  a 
trial.  Why,  this  man,  who  sold  you  on  your  wedding  night,  is  not, 
cannot  be  your  husband." 

Ingenue,  alarmed  at  the  vehemence  of  Christian,  gently  took  his 
hand. 

"  Madam,"  continued  he,  "  if  I  thought  you  were  bound  to  this 
man,  here  is  my  sword  that  should  make  yon  free ;  but  you  are  not ; 
you  have  but  to  deny  it,  and  there  are  a  hundred  ways  of  freeing 
yourself  froni  this  hated  yoke." 

"  Show  me  one,  Christian,  that  will  allow  me  to  leave  this  man, 
without  making  my  father  eternally  wretched — that  will  not  com- 
promise my  honor  and  almost  justify  this  man  to  the  world — and  I 
am  ready  to  adopt  it" 

Ingenue's  common  sense  reasoned  like  the  Count  d'Artois' 
philosophy. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  expose  me  to  the  reproaches  of  the  world  ?" 

"  I  wish — I  ask  nothing  but  love." 

"  You  have  all  my  love,  Christian !" 

"  Ayl  but  what  is  such  a  love,  if  it  is  cold  and  barren?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Ingenue,  looking  steadily 
at  him. 

"  I  mean — well,  will  you  allow  me  to  come  to  your  house  ?" 

-  No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  my  father  would  see  you." 


340  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  You  are  afraid  of  your  husband,  Ingenue ;  you  are  afraid  he 
should  know  I  love  you." 

"  No,  I  am  not,  for  he  does  know  it" 

«  Who  told  him  ?" 

'•'  I,  myself,  told  him,  and  would  tell  him  so  again." 

"  Then  you  are  afraid  that,  if  I  came  to  your  house,  he  might 
attempt  some  violence."  '  « 

"  No,  I  am  not,  for  I  have  even  provided  against  that" 

"  In  what  manner  ?" 

"  I  have  warned  him  that,  if  he  attempted  anything  against  you, 
I  would  kill  him." 

"  My  own  Ingenue !  Then,  as  there  is  nothing  to  fear,  I  can 
come  and  see  you." 

"  What  for  ?"  said  Ingenue,  in  her  clear,  silver  voice. 

"  Well,"  said  Christian,  "  to  talk." 

"  About  what  ?     Can  you  not  tell  me  now  what  you  have  to 


"  Did  I  not  come  often  to  see  you  before  your  marriage, 
Ingenue  ?" 

"  Before  my  marriage — yes." 

"  Did  you  not  write,  and  say  you  wanted  to  see  me  ?" 

"  And  have  I  not  seen  you,  and  told  you  what  I  wanted  ?' 

"  But  I  have  not  told  you." 

"  What,  then,  is  it  you  want  of  me,  Christian  ?" 

"  I  want  yourself,  Ingenue." 

"  But  I  cannot  give  myself,  when  I  no  longer  belong  to  myself." 

"  Oh,  Ingenue !  you  must  know  that  woman  is  destined  for  the 
happiness  of  man." 

"  So  I  have  heard." 

"  Of  the  man  she  loves." 

"  You  are  the  man  I  love." 

"  Well,  then,  make  me  happy,  dear  Ingenue." 

"  In  what  way  ?" 

Christian  gazed  at  her  as  she  stood — her  full,  red  lips  just  parted 
and  pouting — her  clear,  blue  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  her  long,  fair 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  341 

hair  falling  in  clouds  around  her  face.  A  thrill  of  passion  passed 
through  his  veins. 

"  Oh,  Ingenue,"  said  he,  "  do  not  reason  any  more,  but  come  into 
my  own  country  with  me,  far  from  all." 

"  But  my  father  ?" 

"  He  shall  come  to  us  when  we  are  in  safety." 

"  No,  Christian,  it  cannot  be.  I  feel  I  love  you  more  thau  my 
life,  but  this  I  cannot  do." 

"  Then,  what  use  is  it  to  love  and  be  loved  ?" 

"  We  can  wait" 

"Wait!  for  what?" 

"  Wait  till  I  am  a  widow." 

"  Ingenue,  you  will  drive  me  mad." 

••  Qod  will  come  to  our  assistance  ;  for  God  is  just,  and  he  can- 
not doom  me  to  misfortune.  No,  Christian,  I  shall  one  day  be 
happy." 

"One  day?" 

"  Yes  ;  when  I  am  your  wife." 

"  Be  my  wife,  then,  now." 

"  Not  now,  for  that  would  be  breaking  a  solemn  vow." 

u  Ah,  Ingenue,  you  are  too  cold,  too  calculating ;  you  do  not 
love  as  I  do." 

"  I  love  as  well  as  I  can,"  said  Ingenue,  calmly ;  "  I  can  do  no 
more.  I  waited  and  wept  for  you  two  whole  months,  and  now  yon 
are  dissatisfied." 

"  Dissatisfied !  desperate,  you  mean !  oh,  Ingenue,  do  you  not 
trust  me  or  believe  me  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Ingenue ;  "  I  do  not  quite  either  trust  or  entirely 
believe  you." 

"  Yet,  I  have  never  deceived  you — whilst  you  betrayed  me." 

"  I  did  not  deceive,"  said  Ingenue,  "  nor  betray,  acting  under  a 
false  impression.  I  obeyed  my  father's  wishes  ;  but  you,  you  must 
remember,  deceived  me  deliberately." 

"  Deceived  you  !  when  ?" 

"  When  you  represented  yourself  as  a  humble  mechanic,  instead 
of  a  brilliant  page." 


342  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  Do  you  regret  I  am  not  a  mechanic,  Ingenue  ?" 

"  No,  Christian,"  replied  Ingenue,  caressing  the  delicate  hand 
of  her  lover  she  held  in  hers.  "  Still  it  was  deceit,  you  know. 
Then,  my  father,  too,  deceived  me — declared  that  you  were  not  the 
wounded  page ;  hid  from  me  the  cause  of  your  absence ;  and  so 
led  to  all  this,  from  a  kind  motive ;  but  still,  it  was  deceit.  Then, 
the  Count  d'Artois  comes  to  protect  me,  and  takes  me  most 
respectfully  home ;  and  then  goes  directly  from  me  and  bargains 
for  me  with  this  vile  man ;  finally,  this  vile  Auger  comes  to  me 
under  false  colors ;  swears  he  has  been  reformed  and  converted ; 
deceives  me  most  completely.  I  have  never  known  but  four  men 
in  my  life,"  said  Ingenue,  tranquilly ;  "  and,  you  see,  all  four 
deceived  me." 

"  Dear,  sweet  angel !"  said  Christian. 

"  But,"  said  Ingenue,  drawing  nearer  to  Christian,  "  what  did 
that  wretched  Auger  mean  by  his  miserable  folly  ?  Explain  that  to 
me." 

"  Explain  what?"  said  Christian. 

".Explain  why  he  wanted  to  give  me  to  the  Count  d'Artois.  I 
don't  love  the  prince,  you  know." 

"  No,"  said  Christian. 

"  Then  what  was  the  good  of  persuading  me  that  I  was  his 
wife  ?"  said  Ingenue,  looking  straight  at  her  lover  with  her  clear 
blue  eye. 

Christian  replied  not. 

"  Supposing  it  had  been  dark,  I  should,  I  suppose,  have  mista- 
ken him  for  my  husband." 

"  But  luckily  there  was  a  light." 

"  Yes ;  but  even  if  there  had  not  been,  in  the  morning  I  should 
have  found  out  who  was  with  me,  and  the  count  could  not  longer 
have  remained ;  and  what  was  the  use  of  the  whole  trick  ?" 

"  For  God's  sake,  Ingenue,  don't  ask  any  more  questions." 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  you  inspire  me  with  the  most  passionate  desire  to  enlighten 
your  ignorance." 

As  it  had  become  almost  dark,  and  as  the  rain  still  continued 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  343 

to  fall,  and  keep  away  the  curious,  Christian  ventured  to  take 
Ingenue  in  his  arms,  and,  folding  her  tightly  to  his  heart,  to  im- 
print a  passionate  kiss  on  her  lips. 

Inge'nue  colored,  and  sighed,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Chris- 
tian, to  explain  the  sensation  she  experienced. 

"  What  is  the  reason,"  said  she,  "  I  feel  differently  now  when 
you  embrace  me,  than  I  did  before?" 

"  Because  you  love  me  now  as  a  lover,  not  as  a  brother ;  or 
rather,  I  love  you  as  the  tenderest  of  husbands." 

"  That  you  cannot  be.    I  must  not  see  you  again." 

"  Say  at  once  that  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  But  I  do  love  you,  my  dear  Christian.  I  think  of  you  by 
night,  by  day ;  I  only  desire  to  see  you,  to  listen  to  your  voice, 
to  feel  you  near  me.  I  know  not  how  other  women  love ;  for 
though  I  was  always  told  that  I  should  know  what  love  was  when 
I  was  married,  I  have  not  discovered  anything  yet,  and  I  love  you 
as  I  did  from  the  first  hour  I  knew  you.  To  tell  you  this  it  was 
that  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  know  I  must  not  see  you  again, 
becuuse  I  am  no  longer  free." 

••  oh.  Ingenue,  yon  are  not  bound  to  a  man  who  has  committed 
BO  great  a  crime,  and  whom  you  have  driven  from  you." 

"  I  have  driven  him  from  me,  and  I  hate  him  for  his  baseness  ; 
but  that  does  not  cancel  the  vow  I  made  at  the  altar,  or  change 
my  position." 

"  Well,  Ingenue,  if  you  persist  in  keeping  this  position,  give  me 
at  least  a  few  hours  every  day.  You  can  fulfil  all  your  duties,  and 
yet  be  mine." 

"Ah,  Christian,"  said  Inge'nue,  "you  are  proposing  something 
wrong  to  me,  I  know,  for  you  blush  and  hesitate.  Ah,  Christian, 
if  you  want  to  make  me  do  something  that  shall  make  the  world 
despise  me,  and  God  reject  me,  I  shall  not  love  you." 

"  Oh,  Ingenue,  strong  in  your  innocence  and  truth,  you  even 
make  me  forget  my  own  passion.  You  shall  not  be  degraded, 
pure  flower,  that  gives  forth  the  perfume  of  virtue,  without  know- 
ing that  it  spreads  around  health  and  consolation.  I  will  be  wor- 
thy of  you,  but  you  must  make  me  a  solemn  promise." 
2D 


344  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"What  is  it?" 

Christian  again  took  the  young  girl  m  his  arms ;  she  smilingly 
put  her  two  arms  round  his  neck,  and  bent  her  lips  to  meet  his. 
So  long  was  the  kiss  which  followed,  that  Ingenue,  breathless,  was 
obliged  to  lean  on  Christian  for  support. 

"  Swear  to  me,"  said  he,  "  that  no  other  man  shall  ever  hold  you 
in  his  arms,  or  embrace  you  as  I  have  just  now  done." 

"  Oh,  I  will  swear  that  a  hundred  times." 

"  Swear  to  me  that  Auger  shall  never  enter  your  room." 

"I  do,"  said  Ingenue  ;  "I  had  already  sworn  it  to  myself." 

"  Promise  me,  now,  to  write  to  me  every  day.  Every  evening  I 
will  come  under  your  window,  and  take  it  from  the  end  of  a  string, 
bringing  another  letter  from  me  to  yourself." 

"  I  will  never  fail." 

"  Now  farewell,  my  love,  my  best  and  dearest,"  said  Christian  ; 
"  farewell,  since  we  are  parted,  though  together  in  heart  and  spirit." 

Ingenue  threw  herself  into  Christian's  arms  ;  then,  after  another 
long  kiss,  she  tore  herself  away  and  disappeared. 

"  Dearest  child,"  said  Christian,  trembling  with  joy  and  emotion, 
"  a  few  more  such  kisses,  and  many  mysteries  will  be  revealed  to 
your  pure  and  innocent  mind.  But  you  shall  be  my  wife,  my 
honored  wife  ;  not  an  impure  thought  shall  ever  sully  that  brow 
so  fair,  or  make  those  heavenly  eyes  bend  to  the  earth." 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

IN    WHICH   THE   AUTHOR   FINDS    HIMSELF    OBLIGED   TO    ENTER 
INTO   POLITICS. 

WHILST  Christian  and  Ingenue  were  conspiring  against  the  con- 
jugal happiness  of  Auger,  Auger  himself,  like  some  wild  beast 
who  has  lost  the  track,  was  wandering  about,  uncertain  as  to  what 
he  was  to  do,  and  very  much  at  a  loss  to  know  what  game  to  try 
next. 

He  felt  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  hoped  or  expected  from 


THE    FIRST    DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  315 

the  Count  d'Artois ;  for  now,  with  Christian  for  his  ally,  now, 
having  given  up  his  pursuit  of  Ingenue,  Anger  had  no  hold  oa 
him,  either  from  love  or  fear. 

The  count,  with  Christian  against  him,  had  the  nobility  to  fear. 
The  nobility  was  much  discontented  with  the  royal  family,  in 
whose  service,  in  sustaining  fruitless  wars,  it  had  ruined  itself. 
With  Ingenue  for  an  enemy,  the  Count  d'Artois  had  Retif  de  la 
Bretonne  and  the  people  to  dread ;  Retif  with  his  pen,  the  weapon 
which  cleared  the  way  for  the  revolution,  and  the  people  of  Pa- 
ris, who  were  openly  murmuring  against  the  excesses  of  the  nobil- 
ity, under  which  they  had  been  suffering  so  long. 

Then,  too,  Louis  XVI.,  the  moral  king,  would  be  as  much 
offended  and  shocked  at  this  depravity  of  his  brother,  as  both 
nobility  and  people,  so  that  really,  without  his  friendly  alliance  with 
Christian  and  Ingenue,  the  count's  position  would  have  been  any- 
thing but  pleasant,  and  one  which  would  necessarily  have  given 
employment  to  the  intriguing  spirit  of  our  friend  Auger. 

But  now,  instead  of  becoming  a  necessary  accomplice,  it  served 
the  count's  turn  for  Auger  to  become  the  victim,  the  scape-goat  of 
the  whole  adventure,  helping  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois  to  the  sympa- 
thy of  the  nobility,  the  approval  of  the  king,  and  the  admiration  of 
the  public  in  general. 

Auger  had  too  much  sense  not  to  feel  all  this,  and  he  floundered 
about  on  every  side,  to  find  some  way  out.  He  knew  it  was  diffi- 
cult, for  he  felt  that  he  was  but  a  grain  of  sand  under  the  foot  of 
a  giant,  and  he  knew  that  nothing  could  move  the  grain  of  sand 
but  some  great  whirlwind,  which  should  come  along  and  fliug  it  in 
the  air,  high  above  the  giant's  head. 

Now,  luckily  for  M.  Auger's  purpose,  some  such  whirlwind  had 
appeared  on  the  horizon.  An  unknown  storm  seemed  gather- 
ing around ;  none  knew  whence  the  clouds  came,  none  knew  who 
had  evoked  them,  but  all  felt  the  coming  tempest,  which  was  soon 
to  burst  upon  the  world,  taking  the  name  of  the  Revolution. 

The  parliament,  which  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  had  been 
kept  down  by  the  royal  power,  had  just  shown  its  first  symptoms 
15* 


346  INGKNCE;  OR, 

of  revolt,  in  the  matter  of  the  celebrated  trial  of  the  diamond 
necklace. 

The  judges  in  this  trial,  seeing  that  the  king  decreed  the  con- 
demnation of  Cagliostro,  had  acquitted  him. 

These  same  judges,  seeing  that  the  queen  desired  that  the  Cardi- 
nal de  Eohan  should  be  found  guilty,  declared  him  innocent,  whilst 
Madame  de  la  Motte,  whom  the  queen  appeared  to  have  some 
mysterious  reasons  to  protect,  was  condemned — less,  perhaps,  from 
her  connection  with  this  affair  of  the  necklace,  than  in  her  capacity 
of  descendant  of  the  royal  race  of  Valois. 

This  famous  trial,  apparently  the  trial  of  Cagliostro,  the  Cardi- 
nal de  Eohan,  and  Madame  de  la  Motte,  was  in  fact  the  trial  of 
Marie  Antoinette. 

There  was  a  conspiracy,  at  that  tune,  to  dishonor  the  queen,  and 
bring  her  to  shame. 

This  was  a  period  of  conspiracies,  which  led,  step  by  step,  to 
the  great  catastrophe,  the  Revolution. 

The  conspiracy  of  Calonne,  the  minister  of  finances,  reduced 
France  to  a  state  of  bankruptcy. 

Then  came  a  conspiracy  which  overthrew  Calonne,  and  placed 
Lamoignon  and  Brienne  in  his  place. 

It  was  a  conspiracy  of  the  people  which  burned  these  ministers 
in  effigy,  in  the  public  streets — a  conspiracy  of  the  courtiers  having 
first  reduced  them  to  mere  puppets. 

These  were  conspiracies  having  a  definite  object  hi  view  ;  but, 
above  all  this,  several  permanent  conspiracies,  which  had  been 
going  on  for  years,  and  which  threatened,  now  that  they  were 
reaching  a  climax,  to  become  dangerous. 

The  masters  were  conspiring  against  the  servants. 

The  servants  against  the  masters. 

The  soldiers  against  the  officers. 

The  clerks  against  their  employers. 

The  court  against  the  king. 

The  nobility  against  itself. 

The  philosophers  against  God  and  religion. 

The  political  reformers  against  the  state. 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  347 

Foreign  nations  against  France. 

Heaven  against  earth. 

All  other  conspiracies  were  nothing  to  this  last.  Sickness  first 
came,  and  the  people,  with  the  bitter  irony  of  the  French  popu- 
lace, not  knowing  what  name  to  give  this  unknown  epidemic, 
called  it  by  the  name  of  the  minister  they  hated  like  the  plague — 
Brienne. 

Then,  in  July,  1778,  Heaven  sent  down  hailstones  over  all  the 
waving  harvest  fields,  and  this  devastation  accomplished  at  one 
blow  what  Versailles,  Madame  de  Pompadour,  Madame  du  Barry, 
Madame  de  Coigncy,  Madame  de  Polignac,  Messrs,  de  Calonne, 
de  Brienne,  and  Lamoignon  had  been  working  at  for  years. 

The  hail  brought  famine,  a  necessary  consequence.  Then,  as 
from  a  tomb,  pale  spectres  arose  from  all  the  provinces  of  France, 
and,  knocking  at  the  gates  of  Paris,  demanded  of  the  king  the 
food  Heaven  refused  to  give  them. 

Then,  following  this  dreadful  barren  summer  and  autumn,  came 
winter — not  winter  with  its  usual  rigors,  but  winter  such  as  it  had 
been  in  1754,  when  the  snow  prevented  communication  between 
opposite  sides  of  the  same  streets. 

The  waves  brought  icebergs  to  the  very  shore ;  the  thickest 
walls  split  in  the  frost.  Lous  XVI.  had  all  the  royal  forests  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Paris  cut  down,  to  give  to  the  people. 

Now  this  conspiracy  of  Heaven  against  earth  was  one  over 
which  human  intelligence  had  no  control. 

Another  conspiracy  now  arose,  too  :  that  was  the  conspiracy  of 
the  princes  of  the  blood  against  the  king,  with  the  duke  of  Orleans 
at  its  head. 

The  king  had  given  fuel  to  the  Parisians  ;  the  duke  gave  them 
bread  and  meat. 

Bread  and  meat  are  much  better  than  fuel,  to  a  starving  people, 
particularly,  as  the  duke,  who  had  as  many  forests  as  the  king,  gave 
fuel,  too. 

Now  the  Parisians,  enjoying  the  bread  and  meat,  sitting  round 
the  large  fires  made  for  them  by  the  king,  stumbled  upon  a  pun, 
which  had  great  success  at  the  time,  and  which,  of  course,  reflected 
2D* 


348  INGENUE  J    OR, 

on  the  king  ;  for,  besides  being  unfortunate,  Louis  XVI.  was  also 
unlucky. 

"  The  king  gives  us  du  bois,  (wood,)  it  is  true ;  but,  with  this 
wood,  burns  the  people,  instead  of  warming  them  :" 

Alluding,  by  thi&jeu  de  mots,  to  the  captain  of  the  watch,  whose 
name  was  Dubois,  and  who  had  burned  the  people  with  powder,  by 
firing  on  them,  during  the  emeutes. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  public  mind  when  Auger  lost  the  favor 
of  the  count  d'Artois,  his  patron. 

M.  Auger,  when  he  began  to  recover  a  little  from  the  shock  of 
his  fall,  looked  about  him,  and  beheld  these  conspiracies  in  the 
horizon — conspiracies  which  the  great  never  see,  because  they  look 
too  high  and  never  look  but  in  one  direction. 

Auger  looked  on  all  sides,  and  this  was  what  he  saw. 

He  saw  the  political  clubs — the  affiliations. 

He  saw  the  society  divided  into  two  parts — those  who  wanted 
for  everything  ;  those  who  wanted  for  nothing. 

He  saw  that,  through  all  time,  the  people  had  always  been 
starving,  and  had  never  been  fed. 

He  saw  that,  through  all  time,  the  nobles  had  been  always  feast- 
ing, and  yet  had  never  been  satisfied. 

He  discovered  that  from  the  base  to  the  summit  of  this  great 
pyramid,  having  the  king  and  queen  at  the  top  and  the  people  at 
the  bottom,  there  was  a  feverish  desire  for  change.  He  saw,  too, 
that  the  desire  for  change  was  founded  on  no  fixed  principle — had 
no  fixed  end  in  view. 

He  remembered  that  the  queen  had  very  much  interested  herself 
in  order  to  have  the  marriage  of  Figaro  represented. 

He  saw  that  M.  Necker  had  taken  great  pains  to  assemble  the 
Etats  Generaux. 

He  saw  that  the  people  had  made  a  great  commotion  for  the 
sake  of  trying  to  find  an  excuse  to  make  another. 

Auger  saw  that  the  king  was  also  interesting  himself  in  the 
Etats  Generaux,  and  out  of  all  this  Auger  saw  that  there  would  be 
great  commotions  and  agitations  as  to  electing  the  electors,  and 
then  the  deputies  of  this  much-talked-of  assembly. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  349 

The  situation  was  a  novel  one.  The  people — that  unknown  or 
rather  unappreciated  power — was  for  the  first  time  about  to  make 
itself  heard. 

Universal  suffrage  was  not  yet  decreed,  but  if  we  refer  to  the 
Moniteur  of  the  day,  we  shall  find  that  it  came  very  near  it,  as  it 
put  the  power  of  electing  the  electors  into  the  hands  of  all  above 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  who  paid  taxes. 

It  was  putting  the  power  into  the  hands  of  about  five  millions 
of  persons. 

Five  millions  of  mercurial  Frenchmen,  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
set  together  to  get  np  a  commotion ;  here  was  a  chance  for  an 
honest  man  to  make  a  fortune,  which  our  honest  Auger  resolved 
not  to  let  slip. 

How  the  king  and  queen  could  be  so  imprudent  as  to  call  into 
the  drama  of  their  lives  the  people  who  had,  as  yet,  never  played 
any  but  the  part  of  the  Greek  chorus,  in  the  royal  tragedies  of  the 
past,  is  incomprehensible,  except  that  they  believed  the  people  to 
be  neither  enlightened  nor  as  courageous  as  the  people  of  Paris 
really  were. 

The  parliament  who  first  demanded  the  assembly  of  the  Etats 
Generaux —  the  ministers  who  promised  it — M.  Necker  who  de- 
creed it — the  king  and  queen  who  allowed  it  to  be  decreed — meant, 
one  and  all,  to  terrify  the  court  by  the  display  of  this  gigantic 
mass;  for  the  king  and  queen  stood  in  fear  of  the  court,  as  the 
ministers  did  of  the  parliament,  and  the  parliament  of  the 
monarchy. 

Now,  of  what  consisted  what  is  called  the  court  ? 

It  consisted  of  the  nobility  and  the  clergy  ;  that  is,  two  greedy 
hands  which  were  perpetually  plunging  into  the  royal  coffers,  taking 
always  out  and  never  putting  anything  in. 

Now,  to  fill  these  empty  coffers,  the  king  and  queen  were 
obliged  to  come  to  the  people,  and  from  them  draw  taxes  to  re- 
plenish the  treasury,  after  the  ruinous  exactions  of  the  nobility  as 
well  as  after  ruinous  wars. 

It  was  supposed  that,  if  once  the  people  were  consulted,  they 
would  include  the  other  bodies  of  the  state  in  the  taxation,  making 


350  INGENUE  J    OR, 

both  clergy  and  nobility  pay  its  dues  to  the  state — a  little  bit  of 
retaliation  which  much  amused  the  king  and  queen. 

It  is  true,  that  in  this  assembly  of  all  orders  of  society,  the  tiers 
etat,  or  the  people,  had  two  classes  against  them,  so  that,  after  all, 
they  had  but  unequal  chances  ;  true,  also,  though  almost  incredible, 
that  instead  of  electing  to  this  assembly  men  of  their  own  class,  in 
whom  they  had  no  confidence,  they  were  proud  and  vain  enough  to 
prefer  electing  those  above  them,  and  thus  swelling  the  ranks  of 
their  enemies. 

Then,  all  the  nobles  were  electors,  whilst  the  electors  amongst 
the  people  had  to  be  elected. 

Then,  the  assemblies  of  the  people  were  to  make,  openly,  their 
elections,  giving  all  their  reasons  for  and  against.  Now,  it  was 
not  probable  that  the  timid  and  cowed  people  would  ever  dare  to 
speak  out,  if  what  they  had  to  say  was  against  the  nobles  or  the 
clergy. 

Then,  too,  out  of  five  millions  of  electors,  four  millions  were  from 
the  provinces,  and  into  the  provinces  the  spirit  of  democracy  had 
not  yet  penetrated ;  the  provinces  were  still  entirely  subject  to  the 
nobility — influenced  and  guided  by  the  clergy. 

Was  not  Switzerland  a  proof  that  universal  suffrage  led  to  in- 
crease the  power  of  the  nobility?  Now,  Necker  was  a  Swiss 
by  birth. 

Besides,  Necker  was  a  banker,  and  an  admirable  one,  think- 
ing that  all  the  world  was  to  be  managed  on  commercial  princi- 
ples, and  looking  on  his  ministry  as  a  counting-house  on  a  large 
ecale,  and  France,  as  Switzerland,  likewise  on  a  large  scale. 

Every  one  had  his  own  way  of  thinking,  of  viewing,  of  arranging, 
of  managing  the  revolution ;  but  none  appeared  to  think  of  the 
people ;  and  it  was  God,  through  the  medium  of  the  people's  voice, 
which  was  to  decide  the  fate  of  France ;  for,  the  voice  of  the  peo- 
ple ia  the  voice  of  God — Vox  populi,  vox  Dei. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  351 

CHAPTER    LV. 

ACGER  BEGINS  TO  LOOK  ABOUT  HIM. 

IT  was  in  the  midst  of  all  this  effervescence  that  Auger  began 
to  lay  his  plans. 

Reveillon  himself  was  devoured  with  ambition  and  the  desire  to 
be  elector. 

Reveillon  belonged  to  that  ambitious  class  of  tradesmen  who 
desired  to  take  the  place  of  the  nobility,  without,  in  the  least,  in- 
tending that  the  people  should  take  the  place  of  the  bourgeois. 
He  saw  there  was  a  great  deal  going  on,  but  he  did  not,  in  the 
least,  understand  the  ways  and  means  Providence  or  fate  was 
taking  to  bring  its  ends  about 

lie  did  not  see,  good,  honest  tradesman  that  he  was,  that  beneath 
these  five  millions  were  millions  of  whom  no  one  took  any  account, 
but  who  were  destined  to  arise,  and  make  the  greatest  commotion 
the  earth  had  ever  felt — the  Revolution. 

Reveillon  saw  nothing  in  France  but  the  king,  the  queen,  the 
ministers,  the  nobility,  the  clergy,  the  magistrates,  the  electors  and 
the  elected — a  most  profound  error,  shared  by  many  wiser  men 
than  our  good  friend  Reveillon  the  paper-hanger. 

Auger  resolved  to  dedicate  himself  to  the  Rt'rvice  of  Reveillon. 
He  was  not  at  all  as  blind  as  his  patron,  and  knew  full  well  the 
powerful  class  of  the  people ;  not  being  any  longer  able  to  live  on 
the  fat  of  the  land  as  count,  Auger  resolved  to  get  as  much  as  he 
could  out  of  the  bourgeois,  and  not  to  neglect  the  people. 

His  days,  then,  were  conscientiously  dedicated  to  Reveillon  and 
his  interests  :  his  evenings  and  his  nights  were  passed  in  frequenting 
all  the  political  clubs  and  secret  societies — in  listening  to  Malonet 
and  r^afayette,  at  the  club  of  the  Palais  Royal — in  hearing  Marat, 
at  the  club  of  the  Rue  de  Valois,  discuss  theories  of  philosophy  and 
distinction  with  Jourdan  and  Fournier  the  American. 


353  INGENUE  J    OR, 

Surrounded  by  these  grand  and  important  conspiracies,  these 
great  political  movements,  Auger  had  learned  to  despise  his  own 
domestic  difficulties,  and  to  look  with  contempt  on  the  anger  and 
resentment  of  his  wife. 

Above  all,  Auger  disdained  his  good  old  father-in-law,  on  whom 
he  looked  with  pity ;  for  Retif  s  philosophy,  which  appeared  to 
him  so  bold,  seemed  despicable  and  silly  to  Auger,  far  more 
advanced  in  the  philosophy  of  the  day  than  Retif  himself. 

Reveillon  was  worthy  only  of  his  consideration,  because  he  made 
an  instrument  of  him.  Now,  Reveillon  was  what  is  commercially 
styled  an  honest  man.  He  gave  as  little  as  he  could  for  his  goods, 
and  sold  them  as  dear  as  possible  ;  paid  his  bills  with  the  utmost 
regularity,  and  was  unmerciful  with  all  those  who  did  not  pay  him. 
Reveillon  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  himself ;  for  he  was 
a  wise  man,  and  had  risen  to  his  present  position  through  his  own 
industry  from  the  ranks  of  the  people. 

He  was  a  kind  husband  and  a  good  father,  and  therefore 
thought  that  he  fulfilled  all  his  duties  towards  society,  and  had 
reached  the  very  height  of  prosperity.  But,  suddenly  it  dawns 
upon  him,  in  the  new  state  of  things,  that,  to  all  this  prosperity  he 
could  add  civic  honors — could  become  somebody,  even  amongst  his 
fellows,  something  more  than  a  mere  rich  man — he  could  reap  the 
reward  of  his  invariable  industry  and  integrity,  and  show  the 
world  in  what  esteem  he  was  held — he  could  become  an  elector. 
From  the  moment  this  idea  took  possession  of  him,  Reveillon  was 
pursued  by  a  restless  ambition,  which,  we  have  seen,  led  him  to 
confide  in  Retif,  who  helped  him  with  all  his  power,  and  which 
now  led  him  to  confide  in  Auger. 

Santerre,  Reveillon's  friend  and  neighbor,  had  divined  his  ambi- 
tious projects  from  the  first — for  ambition  is  as  clear-sighted  as 
love  ;  and  how  ambitious  M.  Santerre  was,  history  has  recorded. 

Reveillon,  however,  did  not  exactly  know  how  to  begin  with 
Auger ;  it  was  a  delicate  question,  and  one  he  scarcely  dared  to 
touch  on  abruptly. 

"  Auger,"  said  he,  at  length,  one  day,  resolved  on  coming  to  the 


THE    FIBST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  353 

point ;  "  Auger,  I  suppose  you  pay  the  workmen  exactly  every 
Saturday?" 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  Without  any  exception,  I  hope,  for  such  has  always  been  the 
custom  of  the  house." 

"  Without  any  exception,  sir." 

"  And  do  the  workmen  make  any  remark  at  being  so  regularly 
paid?" 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  they  are  loud  in  their  praises  of  the  kind  master 
who  sends  them  home  to  their  families  full  of  joy  and  content." 

"  Ah,  Auger,  don't  flatter,"  said  Beveillon,  his  heart  swelling 
with  satisfaction. 

"  I  am  only  speaking  what  I  hear,"  replied  Auger. 

"  Well,  then,  Auger,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"  A  question,  sir,  of  me  ?"  said  Auger,  humbly. 

"  Tea ;  do  you  think  I  should  have  any  chance  of  being  elected 
elector?" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  replied  Auger,  with  a  smile,  "  if  you  have  not,  it  will 
not  be  my  fault,  for  I  have  been  working  at  that  object  night  and 
day,  for  some  time."' 

"  You  don't  say  so  !"  said  Reveillon,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  joy. 

"Yes,  I  canvass  in  your  favor  everywhere,  and,  besides  your 
own  workmen,  who  have  all  influence  in  the  neighborhood,  I  know 
a  great  many  more  influential  people." 

"Shall  I  be  supported?" 

"  Certainly,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"  Well,  you  don't  go  about  enough." 

"You  know  I  am  a  domestic  man,  Auger — I  live  in  the  bosom 
of  my  family." 

"That  is  just  what  the  people  do  not  like,  for  they  want  depu- 
ties of  their  own  rank." 

"  Of  their  own  rank  ?"  said  Reveillon. 

"  Yes ;  men  who  come  amongst  them,  who  are  with  them  in  all 
their  ideas  and  actions." 


354  INGENUE  J    OR, 

Now  Reveillon  did  not  admire  some  of  the  actions  of  the  people — 
their  emeutes,  for  instance  ;  he  was  no  fighter,  and  he  made  rather 
a  wry  face. 

"  Hum  !"  said  he,  after  a  pause  ;  "  I  think  I  know  what  is  good 
for  the  people,  and  who  would  make  them  an  excellent  deputy." 

"  Do  you,"  said  Auger,  "  who  is  it?" 

"  You  must,  however,  listen  to  my  political  theory  before  you 
can  understand  me,  Auger." 

"  I  am  all  attention,  sir." 

Reveillon  put  himself  into  an  attitude,  and  began,  sententiously. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  recognize  the  king  as  the  head  ;  then  come 
the  laws — now  the  Constitution  we  are  going  to  make,  will  take 
the  place  of  the  laws." 

Auger  bowed,  and  Reveillon  proceeded. 

"  I  would  have  the  ministers,  and  those  engaged  in  the  govern- 
ment, well  paid,  sir  ;  for  all  employed  in  the  service  of  the  nation 
should  be  paid  by  the  nation,  just  as  I  pay  all  my  clerks  and  my 
workmen. 

"  As  to  the  nobles  and  priests,  sir,"  continued  the  paper-hanger, 
"  I  would  have  them  mere  citizens  of  the  state,  like  myself,  only  I 
would  have  it  always  remembered  that  the  priesthood  represents 
God  and  the  church ;  and  that  the  ancestors  of  the  nobility  had 
fought  and  died  for  their  country,  and,  therefore,  ought  to  be 
respected." 

Here  the  orator  paused  to  take  breath,  and  to  leave  Auger  time 
to  express  his  opinion,  which  that  adroit  individual  took  care  to  do 
by  raising  his  hands  and  eyes  in  admiration  to  Heaven,  or,  rather, 
to  the  well-papered  ceiling. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Reveillon,  "  I  come  to  the  people.  The 
people,  sir,  are  the  materials  from  which  we  create  voters,  electors, 
and  deputies.  The  people  are  everything  and  nothing — nothing 
now,  but  everything  with  time.  The  people  are  in  a  state  of 
torpor — a  mere  mass  of  individuals,  only  that  they  are  an  intelli- 
gent mass,  that  we  must  try  to  make  more  intelligent  still." 

Auger  smiled,  that  was  all.  Reveillon  was  disappointed,  for 
though  he  had  not,  in  the  least,  the  intention  of  consulting  Auger, 


THE    FIRST   DATS   OF    lU.OOn.  355 

he   wanted   him   to   contradict  him,  or.  at  least,  to  express  an 
opinion. 

44  Well,"  Baid  he,  at  length,  finding  Auger  did  not  reply,  "  have 
you  anything  to  say  to  this  ?" 

"  Not  a  word,"  replied  Auger. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Reveillon,  "  because,  if  you  had,  I  think  I 
could  hare  given  you  some  new  ideas  on  this  subject,  for  I  have 
studied  it  profoundly." 

44 1  see  you  have,"  said  Auger. 

"  Well,  sir,"  proceeded  Reveillon,  determined  to  have  his  speech 
out,  "  I  maintain  that  the  people,  the  intelligent  mass,  ought  to  be 
kept  in  a  state  of  ignorance  ;  follow  my  reasoning." 

"  I  follow,"  said  Auger. 

44  The  people,  sir,  can  only  be  emancipated  by  education  ;  now 
this  education,  given  to  all,  will  have  strange  effects  upon  some ; 
education,  sir,  amongst  the  lower  classes,  will  cause  a  kind  of 
mental  intoxication — like  that  upon  the  savages,  when  they  get 
intoxicated  with  the  fire  water,  of  which  they  do  not  know  the 
power — education  will  set  the  people  wild  and  lead  them  to 
excesses ;  it  is  impossible  to  say  to  what  excesses  the  people  may 
not  be  led  by  education.  God*only  knows." 

Reveillon  here  appealed  to  Heaven,  in  a  most  picturesque  man- 
ner, and  then  looked  down  at  Auger.  Auger  was  cold  and  silent. 

"  You  do  not  approve  of  my  principles  ?" 

44  Not  exactly." 

"  Give  me  your  opinions." 

44  Sir,"  replied  Auger,  "  it  appears  ridiculous  to  talk  to  an  orator 
and  politician  like  you." 

44  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all ;  all  have  a  right  to  an  opinion." 

44  Well,  then,  so  far  from  differing  from  you,  sir,  I  go  still  farther 
than  you  do,  for  I  say  that  not  only  do  the  people  want  to  be  kept 
down,  but  they  actually  want  to  be  kept  down  by  the  strong  arm 
of  authority ;  for  the  people,  sir,  are  actually  ungrateful,  forgetful, 
and  grasping." 

44  They  are,"  said  Reveillon,  struck  by  the  observation,  as  though 
it  had  been  a  new  one. 

2E 


356  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  Because,"  continued  Auger,  "  the  people  trample  to-day  on  the 
idols  they  raised  twenty-four  hours  before,  making  popularity  one 
of  the  most  absurd  delusions  possible ;  for  popularity  leads  to  ruin 
and  death." 

"  Oh,"  said  Reveillon,  "  develope  this  theory,  if  you  please." 

"  I  will  give  you  an  illustration — M.  Sauterre,  for  instance." 

"  Well." 

"What  did  Santerre  do,  during  the  terrible  famine  of  last 
winter  ?  Why,  he  increased  the  pay  of  his  workmen,  did  he  not  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  then  he  has  only  twenty  or  thirty  workmen,  and  I 
have  eight  hundred,  you  know." 

"  If  he  had  had  eight  hundred,  he  would  have  done  the  same. 
Santerre  sacrifices  everything  to  popularity ;  goes  a  great  deal 
further  than  you,  I  think,  have  the  intention  of  going,  M.  Re- 
veillon." 

"  Oh,  decidedly.  Why,  Santerre  opposes  both  the  court  and  the 
ministers." 

"  Whilst  you  go  with  them " 

"  And  always  shall,"  said  Reveillon 

"  Now  the  consequence  of  M.  Santerre's  conduct  is,  that  he 
would  have  all  the  votes  of  the  people,  if  the  people  had  any  votes 
to  give.  Now  you  have  acted  exactly  in  a  contrary  manner  to 
Santerre,  have  diminished  the  pay  of  your  workmen,  and  mean 
still  to  diminish  it." 

"  Certainly ;  for  a  workman  can  live  on  fifteen  sous  a  day." 

"Well,  by  this  conduct  you  have  secured  all  the  votes  of  the 
tradesmen." 

"  I  suppose  I  have ;  yet,  I  did  not  refuse  the  increase  of  wages 
to  flatter  the  trade  ;  but,  on  the  principle  that  the  people  must  be 
kept  down,  and  that  I  consider  money  as  one  of  the  greatest  means 
of  getting  up." 

"  Bravo !"  said  Auger,  "  these  are  principles  that  will  secure  you 
all  the  votes." 

Reveillon,  delighted,  shook  Auger  by  the  hand,  determined  to 
increase  the  wages  of  a  man  who  so  well  understood  that  there  was 
no  necessity  to  increase  the  wages  of  others. 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  357 

Auger  departed,  admiring  the  philosophy  of  this  poor  man,  who 
had  become  rich — of  this  workman,  who  had  become  master,  and 
who  thought  that  all  poor  people  and  all  workmen  should  be  kept 
down,  as  dangerous  and  incapable. 

The  elections  took  place,  giving  an  electric  shock  to  the  body  of 
the  people,  and  rousing  it  for  the  first  time  into  life.  Spite  of 
every  precaution,  the  result  of  the  elections  was  not  what  had  been 
( -\].. •(  -ted.  Though  the  voters  had  been  limited  to  those  who  paid 
a  higher  sum  than  was  at  first  designed,  though  the  military  watched 
the  polls,  and  loaded  their  arms  in  the  presence  of  the  voters,  the 
elections  had  not  the  result  the  royal  party  had  expected. 

Three  only  of  the  king's  candidates  were  named,  and  these  were 
made  to  declare  that  they  accepted  their  nomination  from  the 
hands  of  the  people,  and  not  from  those  of  the  king. 

The  provinces,  too,  disappointed  the  expectations  founded  on 
them  by  the  aristocracy ;  for  they  elected  the  poor  clergy,  the 
natural  and  bitter  enemies  of  the  High  Priesthood. 

Auger  canvassed  diligently  for  Rebellion — only,  unfortunately, 
he  made  known  to  all  the  principles  on  which  Reveillon  was  going 
to  act,  namely,  that  the  people  must  be  kept  down,  and  that  a 
workman  could  live  upon  fifteen  sous  a  day. 

These  principles  enchanted  the  bourgeois,  and  won  him  every 
vote  amongst  the  tradesmen,  ever  at  variance  with  their  workmen ; 
and  so  Reveillon  was  elected  one  of  the  electors. 


CHAPTER    LVI. 

REVEILLON    BECOMES    UNGRATEFUL. 

REVEILLON  had  attained  the  sximmit  of  his  wishes ;  but  it  came 
to  pass  that,  once  arrived  at  this  summit,  he  forgot  the  means  by 
which  he  had  reached  it. 

He  forgot  Auger,  and  forgot  to  reward  him  for  his  services,  or 
even  to  thank  him. 


358  INGENUE  ;   OR, 

Auger,  however,  determined  to  be  paid,  if  not  thanked,  and  set 
about  it  as  determinately  as  he  had  set  about  getting  Reveillon 
elected. 

Auger  had  formed  an  acquaintance  in  the  clubs  with  Marat ;  he 
resolved  to  take  his  advice  on  the  subject. 

"  This  Reveillon,"  said  Marat,  "  appears  to  me  a  worse  aristocrat 
than  any  of  the  nobility.  He  has  none  of  the  vices  of  the  nobility 
which  contributed  to  give  employment  to  the  people,  and  he  has 
the  virtues  of  the  shop-keeper ;  that  is,  he  is  stingy,  suspicious,  and 
selfish — the  arms  with  which  the  tiers  etat  defended  themselves 
against  the  democracy.  The  worst  enemies  of  the  people  are  the 
shop-keepers.  Your  shop-keeper  will  help  the  people  to  upset  the 
throne,  to  burn  the  parchments,  and  efface  the  armorial  bearings 
of  the  nobility ;  but  when  the  shop-keeper  has  destroyed,  he  will 
set  to  work  to  reconstruct  but  for  himself.  From  the  signs  over 
his  door  he  will  make  to  himself  an  escutcheon,  and  the  shop-keeper 
will  sit  in  the  place  of  the  nobility.  The  shop-keeper  is  destined  to 
become  an  aristocrat — a  haughty  noble ;  nay,  we  shall  have,  at 
some  future  day,  a  shop-keeper  on  the  throne." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  to  avoid  it?"  said  Auger. 

"Very  little — destroy  the  species." 

"  Destroy  the  species !  why,  there  are  five  millions  of  the  species 
in  France  ;  who  is  to  destroy  five  millions?" 

"  The  people,"  said  Marat — "  the  people,  who  are  strong  enough 
to  destroy  everything,  whether  they  take  time  or  whether  they  do 
it  at  one  blow — the  people,  who  can  afford  to  be  patient  because 
they  are  eternal,  and  who  will  be  invincible  when  they  are  tired 
of  being  patient." 

" But,"  said  Auger,  "  do  you  know  what  such  doctrines  lead  to?" 

"  To  civil  war,"  replied  Marat. 

"  And  the  lieutenant  of  police  and  the  captain  of  the  watch — do 
you  forget  them?" 

"  No,"  said  Marat,  "  I  don't  forget  them ;  but  do  you  think  one 
cannot  avoid  them  ?  Why  go  forth  into  the  streets  and  make  open 
war,  when  one  can  live  in  a  dungeon,  and  send  forth  proclamations 
from  there,  as  the  oracles  of  old  from  the  caves  ?" 


THK    FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  359 

M  A  dungeon!"  said  Auger  ;  "  is  there  such  a  thing  as  a  dungeon 
now  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  live  in  a  dungeon — a  place  you,  none  of  you,  would 
dare  to  live  in.  I  love  hard  work ;  I  ain  a  man  of  imagination. 
I  can  do  without  the  sun  that  warms  you  ;  I  want  only  the  light 
of  a  lamp.  I  love  solitude  because  it  is  solitude  ;  for  I  hate  soci- 
ety, because  it  is  full  of  deceit  and  wickedness.  The  clubs,  the 
aecret  societies,  the  newspapers  that  are  disseminated  over  France, 
and  that  so  stir  up  the  people,  those  desperate  and  inexorable  sen- 
tences circulated  amongst  the  crowd,  which  every  one  repeats,  and 
no  one  knows  who  composed — all,  all  originate  in  dungeons,  where 
every  one  works  at  this  great  work,  the  Revolution.  But  the  Revo- 
lution, that  immense  car  of  Juggernaut,  which  is  coming  on  at 
such  a  rapid  pace,  requires  that  its  votaries  should  put  their  shoul- 
ders to  the  wheel,  and  help  it  bodily  on ;  for  an  effort  to  stop  or  to 
maderate  its  course,  would  crush  all  who  attempted  it." 
Well,  but  Reveillon  T"  said  Anger. 

"Oh,  yes,  Reveillon  ;  you  want  to  be  revenged  on  Reveillon." 

« I  do." 

"  Well,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  ruin  Reveillon  in  the  opinion  of 
the  people,  and  you  will  see  what  the  people  will  do,"  said  Marat, 
with  one  of  his  satanic  laughs. 

These  words  germinated  in  Anger's  mind ;  he  reflected  upon 
them,  he  turned  them  over  and  over  in  every  way.    Ruin  Reveillon  *; 
in  the  opinion  of  the  people — of  course  Marat  was  right.    Reveillon 
brought  down,  Auger  could  step  on  him,  and  help  himself  up. 
The  thing  was  plain  enough,  and  he  resolved  to  act  upon  it. 

How  he  proceeded  is  Ldt  necessary  to  inquire ;  suffice  it  to  say, 
that  very  soon  it  began  1x3  be  rumored  in  the  neighborhood  that 
Reveillon  was  proud  and  haughty,  and  that  prosperity  had  turned 
his  brain,  and  made  him  ambitious  and  selfish. 

Then  were  repeated  his  famous  maxims,  which,  after  all,  were 
not  his,  any  more  than  the  maxims  of  all  shop-keepers,  and  which 
to  this  very  day,  are  the  maxims  upon  which  all  shop-keepers  act. 

"  The  people  must  be  kept  down,"  and — 

"  A  workman  ought  to  live  on  fifteen  sous  a  day." 
2E* 


360  INGENUE;  OR, 

These  terrible  and  insulting  words  were  brought  in  judgment 
against  Reveillon,  as  were  those,  more  atrocious  still,  pronounced 
by  Foul  on,  and  for  which  he  was  even  more  severely  punished  than 
was  Reveillon  for  his  : 

"  I  will  make  the  Parisians  eat  the  hay  of  the  plains  of  St.  Denis, 
if  they  are  not  satisfied  with  what  they  get." 

Reveillon,  however,  lived  on  in  perfect  unconsciousness  and 
security.  Dazzled  by  his  own  greatness,  he  did  not  remark  what 
every  one  else  saw  going  on  around  him — that  his  workmen 
received  their  pay  in  sullen  silence,  and  that  some,  to  whom  he 
paid  two  francs  a  day,  took  the  two  francs  with  a  sneer,  saying, 
"  Does  Reveillon  mean  to  spoil  us  ?  he  says  we  can  live  on  fifteen 
sous  a  day,  and  gives  us  forty — here  are  twenty-five  too  much." 

Auger  could,  by  a  word,  have  put  a  stop  to  these  threatening 
murmurs ;  for  the  people  of  Paris,  if  they  get  easily  angry,  are 
easily  pacified  ;  but  Auger  took  precious  good  care  to  say  nothing. 
So  these  rumors  acquired  consistency,  and  spread  around,  till  God 
himself,  who  changes  all  hearts,  looked  down  on  France,  and  saw 
that  every  heart  was  perverted  and  wicked,  and  turned  away  his 
face  from  that  unhappy  country. 

One  day,  there  was  a  report  that  the  court,  in  order  to  reward 
Reveillon's  zeal  and  devotion,  had  sent  him  the  order  of  St.  Michael. 
This  absurd  report,  which  deserved  only  to  be  listened  to  with  a 
laugh,  made,  however,  a  violent  impression  on  the  people,  totally 
ignorant  to  whom  such  orders  were  given. 

It  was  told  to  Auger,  but  he  pretended  ignorance,  and  replied 
merely  by  a  well-accentuated  "  really !"  which  went  far  to  confirm 
the  report.  Many  even  affirmed  that  M.  Reveillon's  clerk  had  said 
that  he  had  received  the  order  of  St.  Michael,  and  there  was  no 
longer  any  doubt  on  the  subject. 

Now,  it  may  perhaps  appear  necessary  to  explain  M.  Anger's 
motives.  Were  they  simply  motives  of  vengeance  and  hate,  or 
had  he  some  other  end  in  view  in  all  these  manoeuvres  ? 

Auger  was  inspired  by  hate,  but  also  his  principal  object  was  to 
get  something  out  of  the  confusion  he  was  creating. 

There  are  men  who  love  confusion  and  disorder,  as  birds  of  prey 


THE   FIRST   DAY3   OF   BLOOD.  361 

iOve  carnage  and  death,  because,  as  long  as  there  is  life,  there  can 
oe  a  struggle  ;  but  when  there  is  carnage  and  death,  there  can  be 
no  resistance. 

Auger  determined  to  ruin  his  employer,  in  order  to  get  posses- 
sion of  some  remnant  of  his  fortune. 

Auger  pursued  his  plans  both  covertly  and  openly.  Openly,  in 
.  the  advice  he  gave  Beveillon — covertly,  in  the  false  reports  he 
pprcad  concerning  his  patron's  principles  and  actions. 

About  this  time,  spite  of  all  his  mental  blindness,  Reveillon 
began  to  feel  uncomfortable  at  the  cold  glances  and  dogged  man- 
ners of  those  around  him,  but,  shop-keeper  like,  he  attributed  all 
but  to  one  cause — the  credit  of  the  house. 

Beveillon,  therefore,  got  together  all  his  funds,  as  a  generel  gets 
around  him  his  troops  on  the  eve  of  battle. 

Reveillon  ordered  his  treasurer,  Auger,  to  realize  and  to  get 
together  all  his  moneys.  Now  money  was  either  disposed  of,  in  those 
days,  in  commercial  speculations  or  in  real  estate ;  for  since  t  lie 
threatening  aspect  of  political  affairs,  the  funds  had  lost  all  value. 

Reveillou  resolved  upon  realizing  all  he  could,  settling  his  affairs, 
and  then,  all  at  once  and  with  flying  colors,  withdrawing  from  com- 
mercial life.  Already  he  thought  how  happy  he  and  his  children 
would  be  in  some  quiet  country  place,  or  in  some  retired  city  house, 
full  of  comfort  and  luxury,  where  they  should  enjoy  their  honors, 
and  be  surrounded  by  none  but  friends. 

So  Reveillon,  by  his  shop-keeping  instinct,  was  about  to  destroy 
the  whole  of  Auger's  well-organized  plans;  but' Auger  had  gone 
too  far  to  give  up,  and,  resolved  as  he  was,  he  instantly  set  to  work 
to  carry  out  his  plans. 

He  began  by  negotiating  some  of  Reveillon 's  paper,  and  turn- 
ing it  into  gold,  which  he  carefully  placed  in  rouleaus  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  strong-box,  telling  Reveillon,  when  he  expressed  his 
astonishment  at  the  proceeding,  that  it  was  a  necessary  precau- 
tion. 

"  For,"  said  Auger,  "  a  person  of  such  political  importance  as 
yourself,  is  liable  at  any  time  to  be  assailed,  and  it  may  be  neces- 
sary for  you  to  fly  at  a  moment's  notice.  Then,  of  what  use  is 
16 


362  INGENUE  J    OR, 

commercial  paper  ?  gold,  gold  is  the  only  thing,  and  in  your  inter- 
est 1  am  collecting  it." 

This  explanation  sufficed,  nay,  more  than  sufficed,  to  Reveillon, 
for  it  gave  him  a  high  opinion  of  Auger's  devotion  and  affection. 
It  did  not  calm  his  suspicions  ;  for,  to  say  the  truth,  he  had  never 
had  any  suspicions  of  Auger's  fidelity  ;  so  Auger  was  in  a  fair  way 
of  realizing  his  plans,  after  all ;  and  he  went  on  accumulating  his 
gold  day  after  day,  gloating  over  his  own  good  luck,  and  the  ruin 
he  was  making  for  those  to  whom  he  had  been  obliged  so  long  to 
act  as  a  subordinate  and  inferior. 


CHAPTER    LYII. 

IN    WHICH    RETIF    DE    LA    BRETONNE   GETS    CONSIDERABLY 
ASTONISHED. 

RETIF,  however  little  he  observed,  could  not  but  at  length  dis- 
cover that  his  daughter's  marriage  was  not  a  happy  one. 

The  first  person  to  whom  the  worthy  father  mentioned  his  sus- 
picions, was  his  son-in-law  ;  but  he  declined  answering,  and,  affectr 
ing  despair,  rushed  from  the  room.  Indeed,  lately,  he  had  kept 
pretty  much  from  the  house,  so  that  the  father  and  daughter  were 
left  almost  entirely  to  themselves.  They  soon  forgot  even  the 
existence  of  Auger,  and  the  daughter  appeared  to  have  recovered 
her  spirits,  and  was  as  gay,  coaxing  and  happy  as  when  she  petted 
and  cajoled  her  father,  to  conceal  the  existence  of  her  love  and  her 
lover. 

Now,  to  this  lover,  according  to  promise,  she  faithfully  wrote 
every  day,  and  he,  as  faithfully,  brought  her  a  letter,  full  of  pro- 
testations and  promises  of  love  and  fidelity. 

This  lasted  a  fortnight;  at  the  end  of  that  time  Christian  im- 
plored an  interview,  and  Ingenue  felt  it  would  be  cruel  to  re- 
fuse it 


THE   FIRST   DAYS  OF   BLOOD.  363 

This  time  the  Luxembourg  was  the  place  appointed,  and  the 
hour,  four  o'clock ;  because  it  implied  that  an  hour  later  it  would 
be  dark,  and  a  lover,  however  respectful  he  may  be,  has  always 
more  to  hope  for  in  the  dark  than  in  the  broad  daylight. 

A  week  after  this  meeting,  another  was  appointed;  and  then 
another ;  and  then  another ;  until,  at  last,  they  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  Retif. 

Now,  it  must  be  said,  to  the  honor  of  Christian,  that  never  once 
during  these  interviews,  had  he  sought  to  get  Ingenue  to  follow 
him  to  the  houses  with  the  waving  trees,  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois 
was  so  ready  to  lend  him.  They  remained  as  innocently  together 
as  they  had  done  in  their  first  interview  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 

Retif,  however,  began  to  grow  suspicious,  and  to  question 
Ingenue,  but  Ingenue  eluded  his  questions ;  so  Retif,  who  was 
accustomed  to  construct  plots  in  his  novels,  made  use  of  a  little 
subterfuge,  and  resolved  to  discover  what  was  going  on. 

Pretending  to  have  business  which  would  detain  him  out  all  day, 
he  ensconced  himself  in  a  hackney  coach,  and  there  sat,  till  he  saw 
Ingenue  come  out  of  the  house  ;  she,  too,  got  into  a  coach,  and 
Retif  ordered  his  to  follow.  They  drove  to  the  Invalidcs.  There 
Ingenue  got  out,  and,  in  less  than  a  minute,  was  joined  by  a  young 
man,  which  young  man  Retif  de  la  Bretonno  instantly  recognised 
to  be  Christian  ;  whereupon,  Retif,  fully  satluiied,  drove  home. 

When  Ingenue  returned  home,  she  found  her  father  enveloped  in 
his  dressing-gown,  in  an  attitude  of  mosl  intense  dignity.  No 
sooner  did  she  enter  than  he  began  the  spee  -h  he  had  prepared. 

He  began  by  enumerating  all  the  duties  of  the  married  state ; 
then  went  off  into  a  panegyric  of  Auger  ;  then  melted  into  tears 
at  his  sorrows ;  made  a  hero,  a  victim  of  him  ;  and  ended  by 
declaring  himself  the  most  wretched  old  man  in  the  world. 

Ingenue  heard  him  out,  without  once  interrupting  him.  When 
he  had  finished,  she  calmly  desired  her  father  to  listen  to  her,  and, 
without  any  anger,  or  any  exaggeration,  related  all  the  infamy  of 
which  she  had  been  the  victim,  painting  Auger  In  Iiic  right  colors, 
and  putting  everything  in  its  proper  light. 

Retif  stood  aghast,  amazed,  confounded.     For  dome  minutes  he 


364  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

could  not  speak,  but,  at  last,  he  rushed  to  his  desk,  and  taking  np 
a  pen,  set  to  work  to  write  a  thundering  attack  upon  Auger,  the 
prince,  and  aristocracy  in  general,  which  should  ruin  the  whole 
race,  and  revolutionize  all  Paris. 

But  Ingenue  soothed  him,  and  brought  him  round  to  other  feel- 
ings. She  spoke  of  Christian's  goodness,  and  then  Retif  went  off 
into  rhapsodies,  and  Christian  instantly,  in  his  eyes,  became  a  hero 
of  romance. 

"  Oh,  noble-hearted  being  !"  apostrophised  the  novelist ;  "  oh, 
fortunate  Ingenue!  Ingenue,"  continued  he,  "you  see  that  the 
perversity  and  corruption  of  the  times  have  driven  us  out  of  the 
beaten  track  ;  the  laws  of  society  are  no  "longer  anything  for  us — 
we  must  throw  them  aside.  Christian  must  come  and  live  with  us ; 
he  is  your  husband — to  him  shall  your  old  father  give  you. 
What !  shall  absurd  and  atrocious  laws,  made  by  erring  men,  per- 
vert the  holy  laws  of  nature,  and  condemn  you  to  perpetual 
widowhood  ?" 

Ingenue  opened  her  eyes  with  intense  astonishment  at  these 
words. 

"  Yes ;  listen  to  me,  Ingenue.  These  are  events  so  extraordi- 
nary, that  they  call  for  extraordinary  remedies.  You  can  no 
longer  belong  to  the  wretch  who  calls  you  his  wife — it  would  be 
sacrilege,  nay,  it  would  be  prostitution.  I  command  you  to  drive 
him  from  you." 

"  Oh,  I  have  already  done  that,"  said  Ingenue,  quietly. 

"You  don't  say  so?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  a  long  time  ago." 

"  That  rejoices  my  heart,"  said  Retif,  "  and  yet  I  could  weep 
tears  of  blood,  when  I  think  that  my  pure  and  innocent  child  has 
been  polluted  by  the  embraces  of  such  a  monster." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  dear  father,  as  to  this  last  circum- 
stance." 

"  Mistaken,  child  ;  what  do  you  mean  ?  Did  I  not,  blind  fool 
that  I  was,  give  you,  myself,  to  this  man,  at  the  altar  ?  Is  not 
that  incarnate  devil  your  husband  2" 

"  Yes." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  365 

"  Did  we  not  have  a  great  wedding  dinner  ?" 

-  We  did." 

"  And  a  ball  ?" 

"  We  did." 

"  After  which,  did  not  I,  true  to  the  custom  of  the  ancients, 
myself — not  any  longer  having  a  wife  to  do  it — conduct  you  to  the 
nuptial  chamber  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Where,  having  given  you  my  blessing,  I  left  you,  and  left  you 
with  your  husband " 

"  Father,  dear,  you  forget  what  I  told  you." 

"  What  did  you  tell  me,  for  I  am  puzzled,"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  told  you,  father,  that,  instead  of  my  husband,  it  was  the 
Count  d'Artois  I  found  in  the  room." 

"  The  Count  d'Artois !  so,  then,  it  is  the  prince  who— well  you 
are  pretty  enough,  and  charming  enough,  my  child,  for  any  prince ; 
you  are  fit  for  a  king  or  an  emperor.  So  it  was  the  prince  ;  eh ! 
Ingenue  ?" 

"  Father,  dear,  you  forget  what  I  told  yon." 

"  What,  again  ?" 

"  Yes ;  if  you  remember,  I  told  you,  that,  by  the  light  I  had 
burning,  I  had  recognized  the  prince,  and  that  the  prince,  touched 
by  my  prayers  and  entreaties,  like  a  noble  and  chivalric  prince,  as^ 
he  is,  had  consented  to  leave  me " 

"  Ah !  he  went  away,  did  he  ?" 

«  Yes,  father  ;  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois  behaved  very  well  to  me." 

"  Well,  what  followed  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dearest  father,  I  told  you  that,  as  the  Count  d'Artois 
went  out,  leaving  me  pure  and  unsullied  as  when  he  entered,  it  was 
M.  Christian  who  came  in."  As  Ingenue  uttered  these  words,  she 
blushed  and  looked  down. 

"Ahl"  exclaimed  Retif;  "unerring  and  ever  powerful  love, 
these  are  thy  exploits !  it  is  neither  the  husband  who  has  bought 
his  right  to  you  at  the  altar,  nor  the  prince  who  has  bought  his 
right  of  the  husband,  but  the  sly,  young  scape-grace  of  a  page,  who 
escapes  just  in  time  from  the  arms  of  death  and  the  doctors,  and 


366  INGENUE  J    OR, 

comes — well,  Ingenue — well,  child— I  confess  I  am  not  sorry.  On 
the  contrary,  I  rejoice  ;  it  is  the  triumph  of  love  and  nature.  All 
hail !  monsieur  Christian,  all  hail !"  said  Eetif,  raising  his  arms,  as 
in  salutation. 

Ingenue,  after  some  little  struggling,  contrived  to  take  hold  of 
Eetif  s  arms,  and  to  arrest  his  enthusiasm. 

"  My  dearest  father,"  said  she,  "  you  are  again  mistaken." 
I     "  What !  how  !  was  there  somebody  else  ?"  said  Ketif. 

"  No ;  but  M.  Christian  was  even  more  respectful  than  the 
prince." 

"  You  don't  say  so ;  then  it  was  not  on  that  night  that  your 
marriage  with  Christian  was  celebrated  ?" 

"  Nor  then — nor  since." 

"  Then,"  said  Retif,  still  skeptical  as  to  the  innocence  of  his 
daughter's  intercourse  with  Christian  ;  "  then,  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  are  nobody's  wife,  and  that  you  are  Ingenue — my  Ingenue 
— and  nobody's  else  ?" 

"I  swear  it  to  you,  by  the  memory  of  my  mother  1"  replied 
Ingenue,  looking  at  her  father  with  her  deep,  blue  eyes. 

"  And  I  believe  you ;  but  now,  Ingenne,  to  reward  such  won- 
derful chastity  and  devotion,  you  shall  be  married." 

"  Be  married,  father  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  will  be  the  sovereign  pontiff  who  shall  bless  your 
•  union  with  your  lover,  and  give  you  to  the  arms  of  your  noble  and 
generous  Christian." 

Ingenue  could  only  gaze  with  surprise ;  she  knew  not  what  to 
answer. 

"  Yes,  Ingenue  ;  there  is  still  youth  and  enthusiasm  in  your  old 
father's  heart.  Listen  to  what  I  propose.  We  will  choose,  Christian 
and  myself,  some  snug  retreat,  where,  surrounded  by  every  luxury — 
for  your  page  is  rich,  I  believe — you  can  become  his  wife  ;  I  will 
bless  your  union  ;  we  shall  want  none  of  the  formalities  of  the  law, 
and  we  shall  all  be  happy ;  and  I  shall  have  two  children  instead 
of  one.  Yes,  Ingenue — yes,  my  child — you  shall  bring  Christian 
to  me,  and  I  will  explain  all  to  him ;  there,  smile,  my  precious 
child — smile  on  your  old  father.  Oh,  Ingenue !  what  a  triumph 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  3G7 

for  philosophy,  to  think  that  a  father  should  have  the  courage  to 
understand  marriage  in  its  true  sense — as  the  union  of  the  heart  and 
soul — as  the  union  made  by  God  when  he  inspires  that  love,  and 
not  as  a  union  made  by  man  and  law." 

Ingenue's  sweet  and  gentle  face  changed  its  almost  infantine 
expression  ;  as  her  father  proceeded,  it  assumed  a  calm  and  rigid 
dignity  and  firmness  that  appeared  to  transfigure  her. 

"  My  beloved  father,"  said  she,  "  Christian  and  I  have  already 
settled  our  future  plans." 

14  So  you  refuse  mine  ?" 

"  I  canuot,  though  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  your  kindness,  ac- 
cept ;  and  yet,  Heaven  knows  how  tempting  is  your  offer.  But, 
father,  I  have  resolved,  seeing  the  fate  of  other  women,  never  vol- 
untarily to  expose  myself  to  a  similar  one.  I  will  never  be  any 
man's  mistress — never.  I  love  Christian — shall  ever  love  him  ; 
love  him  more  than  my  life  :  he  may,  perhaps,  love  me  less,  or, 
growing  weary,  cease  to  love  me ;  then,  then  1  should  die.  I  could 
not  survive  his  love,  but  I  would  rather  die  of  grief  than  of  shame. 
Such  is  my  resolve." 

Retif  was  astounded  ;  indeed,  for  the  last  hour,  he  had  gone 
through  a  succession  of  surprises  which  quite  bewildered  him.  He 
was  lost,  too,  in  admiration ;  he  had  never,  even  in  his  own  books, 
heard  women  talk  in  this  way. 

"  The  position  of  a  mistress,  father,"  continued  the  noble  girl, 
"  is  essentially  a  false  one.  If  I  had  children,  as  Christian  says  I 
should,  their  position  would  be  a  miserable  one.  My  love  for  them 
would  be  their  disgrace — Christian  might,  too,  be  ashamed  of  them. 
I  could  not  exist  if  I  were  despised.  I  cannot  exist  without  love ; 
I  cannot  exist  without  esteem ;  and  I  should  die  if  I  despised 
myself." 

Retif  looked  at  Ingenue  with  perfect  astonishment ;  he  could 
not  get  over  his  surprise  at  the  extraordinary  moral  code  which 
he  saw  now  professed  by  the  youth  of  his  day,  so  very  different 
from  the  morals  of  those  of  his  own. 

"  How  long,  do  you  think,  will  Christian  be  satisfied  with  thia 

state  of  things?" 

2F 


368  IXGEXUE  ;  OR, 

"  Always,  my  father." 

"  But  it  is  nonsense,  my  child,  for  it  is  contrary  to  nature. 
.     "  No,"  said  Ingenue  ;  "  we  have  both  sworn  to  remain  as  we 
are." 

"  Ah,  my  child,  a  day  will  come  when  you  will  find  Christian 
unhappy  and  miserable,  and  when  you  will  console  him." 

"  Never." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  him." 

"  Not  love  him !"  said  Ingenue ;  and  such  an  expression  of  ten- 
derness and  love  passed  over  her  face,  that  Retif  was  lost  in  admi- 
ration, as  he  gazed  on  this  beautiful  image  of  purity  and  love. 

"  But,  child,  if  you  mean  to  wait  till  your  husband's  death,  do 
you  know  how  long  you  may  have  to  wait  ?  Auger  is  thirty ;  he 
may  live  fifty  years  longer ;  you  will  then  be  seventy,  and  Christian 
seventy-four — a  reasonable  age !" 

"  Oh,  something  will  happen  before  that  to  break  our  marriage." 

"  What  should  happen,  child  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  something  will,  and  then  Christian  will 
marry  me." 

"  Has  he  promised  that,  too  ?" 

"  He  has." 

"  Sublime  children,  most  sublime  children !  Well,  Ingenue,  have 
your  own  way.  But  take  my  advice,  try  and  make  something 
happen  to  break  your  marriage  as  fast  as  you  can." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  am  doing." 

"  What  ?    How  ?    Is  it  a  secret  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  am  praying  every  night  to  God." 

"Hum !  hum !"  said  the  philosopher ;  " is  that  all ?" 

"  All,"  said  Ingenue ;  "  God  never  failed  to  hear  or  to  grant 
one  of  my  prayers." 

"  By  Jove!  Ingenue,  but  you've  been  mighty  lucky,"  said  Eetif. 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  369 

CHAPTER    LVIII. 

THE     SKY    BEGINS     TO     DARKEN. 

DURING  the  few  last  weeks,  the  aspect  of  Paris  had  considerably 
changed.  The  horrible  sufferings  of  this  severe  winter  of  1788, 
and  the  excitement  of  the  elections,  which  had  fallen  like  a  bomb- 
shell in  the  midst  of  these  sufferings,  scattering  fire  and  flame 
around,  had  left  the  capital  in  a  strange  state  of  confusion.  For 
all  orderly  and  well-meaning  persons,  the  excitement  ended  with 
the  elections;  bat  for  the  class  upon  which  politicians  and  in- 
triguers had  been  so  long  playing — for  the  people — the  elections  had 
been  the  signal  of  revolt  and  commotion,  the  spark  which  was  to 
ignite  the  mine  which  was  to  explode,  and  blow  into  the  air  a  mon- 
archy which  had  existed  for  centuries. 

Reveillon's  election  had  produced  a  very  bad  effect  in  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  and  his  celebrated  speech,  repeated  on  all  sides,  had 
been  acted  upon  by  many  of  the  tradesmen.  They  had  diminished 
the  wages  of  their  workmen,  and  the  workmen,  from  discontent, 
proceeded  to  open  revolt,  pretending,  forsooth,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  live  upon  fifteen  sous  a  day. 

What  so  revolted  the  people  of  the  Faubourg,  or  rather  the 
people  who  made  it  their  business  to  irritate  the  Faubourg  against 
Reveillon,  was,  that  Reveillon,  who  had  now  grown  so  overbearing 
and  niggardly,  was  nothing  more  than  a  workman  himself — that  he 
had  risen  from  the  lowest  rank,  and  had  made  his  fortune  through 
his  workmen. 

Public  opinion,  which  has  always  some  favorite  way  of  manifest- 
ing iteelf,  had  adopted  lately  a  most  harmless,  a  most  imposing 
punishment,  for  those  it  condemned.  It  had  adopted  the  plan  of 
burning  in  effigy,  and  had  already  burned  in  effigy  various  ministers ; 
and,  above  all,  our  friend  Dubois,  the  captain  of  the  watch.  The 
people  of  the  Faubourg  now  thought  they  would  like  to  make  a 
bonfire  of  Reveillon— Reveillon,  the  hard-hearted— Reiveillon,  tha 
16* 


370  INGENUE;  OR, 

aristocrat — Reiveillon,  the  miser,  etc.,  etc. — and  give  him  the 
honors  of  an  auto-da-fe  in  effigy,  which  is  much  pleasanter  than  in 
reality ;  though,  perhaps,  less  honorable ;  but,  fortunately,  the  good 
people  of  Paris  never  thought  of  doing  the  thing  in  a  strictly 
Spanish  fashion,  or,  at  that  time,  they  most  certainly  would. 

Now  it  was  the  easiest  thing  in  life  to  burn  M.  Reveillon  in 
effigyf  he  had  no  guards,  no  attendants  to  defend  him,  and  was 
himself  always  accessible,  sitting  every  day  in  his  counting  house. 
The  captain  of  the  watch  who  had  made  himself  so  busy  in  the 
other  executions  would  certainly  not  interfere  with  Reveillon — that 
was  a  sure  thing. 

So  it  was  resolved  to  burn  M.  Reveillon  in  effigy ;  and  accord- 
ingly, on  the  27th  of  April,  the  masses  began  to  assemble  in  the 
Faubourg.  They  had  at  first  no  definite  plan,  and  scattered  them- 
selves about  in  various  groups,  having  to  each  group  an  orator,  to 
whom,  before  proceeding  further,  they  of  course  stopped  to  listen. 
The  first  question  mooted  in  these  speeches  was,  whether  the  elec- 
tions had  made  them  free,  and  whether,  being  free,  they  ought  to 
consider  themselves  as  a  republic  or  not.  This  last  question  was 
doubtful ;  but  the  first  was  unanimously  proclaimed.  Being  there- 
fore free,  they  had  a  right  to  do  what  they  pleased.  Now  what 
they  pleased  was  to  burn  Reveillon  in  effigy,  and  to  burn  him  they 
set  to  work. 

They  made  an  immense  figure,  larger  and  higher  than  any  that 
had  been  made  for  the  ministers — a  great  honor,  by-the-bye,  for  a 
mere  tradesman  ;  and  having  dressed  it  in  rags,  they  slung  across 
it  a  wide,  black  ribbon,  to  represent  the  order  of  St.  Michael — that 
with  which  the  court  was  about  to  decorate  the  paper-hanger.  Then, 
on  the  breast  of  the  figure,  was  written  the  sentence  which  had  so 
offended  the  people — "  that  a  workman  could  and  should  live  on 
fifteen  sous  a  day ;"  and  then,  all  being  ready,  the  ragged  and  in- 
furiated procession  advanced  towards  the  Bastille,  near  which,  as  we 
have  seen,  Reveillon 's  house  was  situated. 

Soon  they  were  in  front  of  Reveillon's  abode.  Here  they  paused, 
and  taking  up  three  or  four  paving  stones,  planted  the  figure  firmly 
in  the  ground.  Then  borrowing  from  the  neighbors  a  little  straw 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  371 

and  a  few  logs  of  wood,  they  set  about  constructing  a  fuueral  pile. 
The  neighbors,  inspired  partly  by  fear  and  partly  by  that  spirit  of 
envy  which  never  fails  to  exist  against  a  richer  neighbor,  did  not 
dare  to  resist.  All  preparations  completed,  a  torch  was  applied 
and  the  flames  burst  forth,  whilst  the  crowd  shouted  and  danced 
around  like  a  lion  roaring  before  he  devours  his  prey. 

One  idea,  however,  naturally  suggests  another,  and  the  idea  of 
burning  Reveillon  in  effigy  suddenly  suggested  the  idea  of  burning, 
not  Reveillon  himself,  but  Reveillon's  house. 

Reveillon  had  said  that  the  people  could  live  upon  fifteen  sous  a 
day ;  now  they  resolved  that  Reveillon  should  try  in  what  manner 
he  could  live  on  fifteen  sous  a  day.  A  number  of  new  faces  now 
appeared  among  the  crowd — scowling,  ferocious-looking  faces, 
leaning  on  long  staves,  which  served  them  for  support,  but  which 
evidently  were  intended  to  serve  them  as  arms. 

Many  of  the  spectators  pretended  that  they  had  seen  these  men 
distribute  money  among  the  crowd,  as  it  prepared  to  execute  this 
last-thought-of  plan. 

Whilst  all  this  was  going  on,  Reveillon  himself  was  in  his  gap- 
den,  with  his  daughters.  The  snows  of  1789,  so  late  to  disappear, 
were,  however,  now  vanishing  beneath  the  breath  of  the  zephyrs, 
as  Horace  said,  and  the  trees  were  beginning  to  put  forth  their 
tiny  foliage. 

Reveillon  and  his  daughters  were  examining  their  flowers,  and 
planning  new  beds  and  new  plantations  for  the  coming  spring,  of 
which  they  all  felt  the  influence ;  when  suddenly  a  distant  murmur 
broke  on  their  ears. 

They  listened  with  curiosity,  but  not  with  anxiety  ;  for  within 
the  last  six  months  popular  manifestations  had  become  too  common 
to  excite  alarm.  Sometimes  these  manifestations  were  joyous, 
sometimes  angry,  according  as  the  patriots  felt  with  regard  to  the 
result  of  their  elections;  but,  at  any  rate,  Reveillon  and  his 
daughters  were  too  much  accustomed  to  hear  them,  to  feel  any 
great  alarm. 

But,  as  he  listened,  his  heart  began  to  beat;  for  the  sounds^ 
instead  of  passing  on,  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  appeared  at 
2F» 


372  IXO^NUE  ;  OR, 

last  to  settle,  with  threatening  shouts,  under  the  very  walls  of  his 
house. 

He  rushed  from  the  garden  into  the  court-yard,  where  he.  found 
that  his  servants  had  already  closed  the  gates.  The  shouts  from 
without  had  ceased ;  all  was  silent,  excepting  that  one  loud  and 
continued  knocking  at  the  gate  from  outside. 

Beveillon  advanced  bravely,  and  drew  back  a  small  panel  in 
the  gate,  which  was,  however,  strongly  grated.  There  he  encoun- 
tered, pressed  against  the  grating,  a  yellow,  scowling  face,  with  two 
bright,  threatening  eyes  fixed  on  him.  He  drew  back. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  said  he. 

"  We  want  to  speak  to  Beveillon." 

"  I  am  Reveillon,"  said  he ;  "  speak." 

"  Oh,  you  are  Reveillon,  are  you  ?     Open  the  door,  then." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Because  I  tell  you  I  have  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

«  Who — you  ?" 

"  Tes ;  I  and  some  few  others,"  said  the  man  ;  and,  standing  a 
little  aside,  he  allowed  Reveillon  to  see  the  multitude  assembled 
behind  him. 

A  look  was  sufficient  for  Beveillon.  He  saw  the  multitude,  with 
its  pikes,  its  guns,  its  staves — the  ragged  multitude  with  its  scowl- 
ing, threatening  looks. 

Beveillon  shuddered  and  drew  back. 

"  Open  the  door,"  shouted  the  man,  who  appeared  to  be  chief  of 
the  party. 

"  Why  should  I  open  my  door  to  you  ?"  repeated  Beveillon. 

"  Because  we  want  to  come  in  ;  so  that  we  may  burn  in  effigy, 
in  his  own  court-yard,  the  wretch  who  said  that  fifteen  sous  was 
enough  for  a  workman  to  live  on." 

"  I  swear  to  God  I  never  said  any  such  thing !" 

As  this  reply  reached  the  crowd,  shouts  of  indignation  and 
menace  rent  the  air.  At  the  same  time  Beveillon  heard  Auger's 
voice  whisper  in  his  ear — 

"  Close  the  grating,  M.  Reveillon,"  said  he  •  "  close  the  grating." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  373 

Behind  Auger  stood  Reveillon's  daughters,  weeping  auJ  implor- 
ing their  father  to  come  away. 

"Shut  the  grating,"  said  Auger,  a  second  time.  Reveillon 
obeyed ;  then,  as  if  the  crowd  had  but  waited  for  this  signal,  it 
began  to  batter  at  the  gate,  and  to  shout  with  all  its  might,  as 
though  hostilities  were  really  then  about  commencing. 

Reyeillon  found  himself  surrounded  by  his  daughters,  some  few 
faithful  workmen,  and  Auger. 

"  Fly !"  said  Auger ;  "  fly !  there  is  not  a  minute  to  be  lost !" 

"  Fly  !  and  wherefore  should  I  fly  ?  I  have  done  these  people  no 
harm,"  said  Reveillon. 

"  Just  listen  I"  said  Auger. 

Reveillon  and  those  around  him  listened,  and  heard  the  terrible 
cry  then  first  beginning  to  be  heard  in  the  streets — "  a  la  lanterne .'" 
— which  meant  nothing  more  nor  less  than  hanging. 

The  good  Louis  XVI.  was  about  to  abolish  capital  punishment, 
but  the  people  always  had  a  strange  propensity  for  hanging,  and 
they  resolved  that  this  popular  institution  should  be  maintained. 

Reveillon,  when  he  heard  these  threats,  hesitated  no  longer; 
taking  a  daughter  under  each  arm,  he  fled  into  the  garden,  and  from 
thence,  by  an  alley  the  crowd  had  not  discovered,  reached  the 
Bastille  in  safety. 

"  Now,"  said  Auger,  as  he  watched  him  depart,  "  now  my  time  ia 


CHAPTER    LIX. 

THE    STORM    BURSTS. 

THK  door  still  remained  closed ;  and  the  assailants,  within  sight 
of  the  terrible  fortress  of  the  Bastille,  were  a  little  afraid  to  proceed 
to  open  violence.  They  were  puzzled,  too,  at  the  utter  absence  of 
an  armed  force,  and  expected,  every  minute,  to  see  the  police  and 
the  redoubtable  captain  of  the  watch  appear  at  the  corners  of  the 
street  Now  the  cannon  of  the  Bastille  could  have  annihilated 


374  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

them,  and  they  still  remembered  the  effect  of  the  fusillade  of  Cap- 
tain Dubois  on  the  Place  Dauphine.  Besides,  all  Reveillon's 
windows  were  closed  with  blinds,  and  who  knew  what  terrible 
weapons  might  not  be  pointed  at  them,  from  behind  them,  waiting 
only  their  first  agression,  to  fire  ? 

Still,  however,  for  very  shame,  after  staying  half  the  day  before 
the  door,  shouting  and  threatening,  they  could  not  go  back  with- 
out doing  something ;  so,  not  being  able  to  get  the  door  opened, 
they  resolved  on  burning  it  down.  One  of  the  leaders,  bringing 
wood  and  straw  up  to  the  gate,  put  a  lighted  torch  to  the  pile,  and 
the  flame  curled  up  the  heavy  oaken  gate.  It  produced  a  most 
admirable  effect,  too ;  for  it  had  now  grown  quite  dark,  and  the 
flames  shone  forth  in  great  splendor,  burning  first  the  gate  and 
next  spreading  joyously  to  the  house  itself. 

Still,  no  succor  appeared  ;  this  was  unaccountable  to  many,  but 
was,  in  fact,  the  policy  of  the  court. 

Now,  the  court,  after  contriving  the  elections  and  inventing  the 
meeting  of  the  states-general,  had,  from  the  result  of  these  elections, 
grown  afraid  of  its  own  work  ;  and,  having  put  off  the  meeting  of 
the  states-general,  from  the  17th  April  to  the  4th  of  May,  it  re- 
solved to  find  some  pretext  to  put  it  off  altogether. 

Hearing  of  this  assault  upon  Reveillon's  house,  it  resolved  to  let 
it  proceed,  hoping  that  the  pillage  and  destruction  of  many  others 
would  follow,  and  that  Paris  would  be  in  a  state  of  open  revolt — 
thus  showing  the  impossibility  of  a  popular  assembly,  and  furnish- 
ing an  excuse  for  bringing  an  army  into  the  capital,  as  well  as  to 
Versailles,  to  protect  both  the  capital  and  the  court. 

The  crowd,  therefore,  assembled  before  Reveillon's  house,  had  it 
all  their  own  way ;  and  after  amusing  themselves  with  making  a 
bonfire  of  the  front  of  the  house,  it  began  to  desire  to  penetrate 
within  the  walls. 

At  this  moment,  however,  a  small  detachment  of  soldiers  appear- 
ed, and  began  haranguing  the  multitude.  The  multitude,  however, 
perceiving  that  the  detachment  was  too  small  to  do  anything  else 
than  harangue,  turned  contemptuously  away  and  proceeded  with 
its  work  of  destruction. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  375 

Then  the  soldiers  fired  ;  but  the  multitude,  now  excited  beyond 
control,  replied  to  the  fire  by  a  volley  of  stones,  and  the  soldiers 
were  put  to  flight. 

Now  the  crowd,  putting  ladders  against  the  walls,  knocked  in 
the  windows,  and  entering,  proceeded  to  admit  all  those  who  waited 
but  for  the  doors  and  windows  to  be  opened.  As  the  crowd 
entered  the  house,  flames  were  seen  to  issue  from  the  paper  manu- 
factory, though  as  yet  none  of  the  assailants  had  thought  of  going 
there ;  how  the  manufactory  got  set  on  fire  was  never  known  ;  at 
least,  not  to  the  crowd. 

When  the  crowd  got  into  the  house,  it  had  great  enjoyment. 

Some  gratified  their  tastes  by  throwing  the  furniture  out  of  the 
windows,  whilst  others  rushed  to  the  wine  cellar,  and  a  few  made 
for  the  counting-house. 

Reveillon's  oounting-house  was  at  the  extremity  of  an  inner 
court  leading  to  the  color  rooms.  It  was  a  large  room,  on  the  first 
floor,  divided  into  three  compartments,  the  inner  compartment  con- 
taining the  strong-box  and  the  moneys. 

The  strong-box  itself  was  a  large  oaken  chest,  well  bound  in  iron, 
and  fastened  with  innumerable  locks,  that  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  four  men  to  lift,  even  when  the  box  was  empty.  It 
was  enclosed  in  a  small  closet,  to  which  a  small  staircase  alone 
conducted,  and  which  was  so  constructed  as  to  be  invisible  to 
those  who  were  not  aware  of  its  existence. 

A  few  unsuccessful  attempts  having  been  made  to  find  out  this 
strong-box,  the  crowd  soon  resolved  not  J^.  lose  any  more  time  in 
searching  for  it,  but  returned  to  the  apartments,  where  it  laid 
hands  upon  all  it  could  find. 

Meantime,  Auger — who,  of  course,  knew  perfectly  well  the  stair- 
case, and  all  the  secrets  of  the  closet  containing  the  strong-box,  as 
well  as  the  impossibility  of  finding  it — had  taken  refuge  there ; 
and  there,  sitting  safely  on  his  strong-box,  he  listened  to  the  yelling 
of  the  multitude,  and  watched  the  flames  as  they  rose  from  the 
buildings  around  him. 

He  watched  for  some  time ;  the  crowd,  fully  occupied  with  the 
house,  did  not  once  approach  the  place  where  Auger  lay  in 


3T6  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

ambush.  Presently,  he  heard  a  regular  fusillade,  and  going  to  the 
window,  saw  a  detachment  of  the  Gardes  Franchise  turning  the 
corner  of  the  street.  - 

"  All  is  lost,"  said  Auger ;  "  the  crowd  will  be  dispersed,  and  as 
the  fools  have  never  thought  of  destroying  the  counting-house,  the 
money  will  have  to  be  found  intact.  But,  why  cannot  I  do  what 
they  have  not  done  ?  "Why  cannot  I  fire  the  place  ?  no  one  will 
ever  find  it  out." 

So  saying,  Auger  lighted  a  match  and  threw  it  into  a  barrel 
of  turpentine,  which  stood  in  the  court-yard  not  far  from  the 
window. 

Then  the  mighty  flame  mounted  like  a  serpent,  communicating 
itself  quickly  with  the  essences,  spirits,  and  colors  near  it.  Auger 
watched  its  progress  for  a  few  minutes ;  then,  thinking  it  suffi- 
ciently advanced,  he  went  to  the  strong-box,  opened  it,  and  took 
from  it  the  bag  of  gold  he  had  been  so  diligently  collecting. 

This  done,  he  again  repaired  to  the  window,  and,  lest  the  flames 
should  not  do  their  work  in  time,  he  dipped  a  paper  into  a  barrel 
of  oil,  and,  smearing  it  along  the  walls,  set  fire  to  it  with  a  lighted 
candle. 

Auger,  kneeling  on  the  floor,  coaxing  the  flames  round  the  strong- 
box, in  which  remained  only  drafts  and  bills,  which,  though  of 
great  value,  would  have  been  of  no  use  to  Auger,  but  might  have 
served  to  betray  him — looked  like  the  genius  of  evil  working  poor 
Eeveillon's  ruin,  when  suddenly  a  voice,  pronouncing  his  name, 
made  him  start  to  his  feet. 

Auger  turned,  and  on  the  threshold,  pale  and  calm,  he  beheld 
Ingenue. 

"  What,  are  you  also  a  thief?"  said  Ingenue,  with  an  expression 
of  profound  scorn. 

Auger  let  fall  his  candle ;  but,  clasping  his  bag  of  gold  to  his 
bosom,  he  exclaimed — 

"  What  do  you  do  here?" 

"  I  come  to  expose  you  ;  I,  who  know  all  your  vices." 

Auger  gasped  for  breath ;  he  held  his  gold ;  was  he  to  lose  it 
now  ?  He  looked  at  Ingenue,  and  then,  with  a  rapid  movement, 


THE    FIBST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  377 

his  hand  sought  his  pocket,  in  which,  he  remembered,  was  a  long, 
sharp  knife,  such  as,  in  those  days  of  confusion,  men  found  it  neces- 
sary to  carry  with  them  for  defence. 

Still  he  had  no  definite  intention,  as  he  clasped  the  knife,  and 
looked  at  Ingenue.  Ingenue — what  power,  what  chance,  had 
brought  her  there,  at  this  critical  moment,  standing  before  him. 
pure  and  pale,  like  the  statue  of  Nemesis  ? 

Ingenue's  presence  was  very  easily  accounted  for.  She  had 
gone  out  early  to  meet  Christian,  and  had  spent  the  whole  morn- 
ing with  him  in  her  usual  manner.  When  it  began  to  grow  dark, 
Christian  had  brought  Ingenue  home ;  that  is,  as  near  her  home 
as  he  thought  it  prudent  to  venture. 

As  they  proceeded,  they  had  heard  sounds  of  distant  tumult ; 
but  such  sounds  were  so  common  that,  occupied  as  they  were 
with  each  other,  they  paid  no  attention  to  them,  except  that,  fore- 
seeing a  crowd,  Christian  had  taken  Ingenue  through  all  the  back 
streets,  and  brought  her  to  the  door  of  the  garden  instead  of  to 
tho  front  door.  ^ 

Ingenue,  finding  the  garden  door  open,  had  entered;  but  no 
sooner  bad  she  entered,  than  she  perceived  the  smoke  issuing  from 
the  house,  and  men  running  in  all  directions. 

Full  of  courage,  like  all  that  is  innocent  and  pure,  Ingenue's 
first  thought  was  that  Reveillon  and  his  daughters  were  in  danger, 
and  that  she  could  be  of  some  assistance.  She  paused  for  an 
instant,  and,  having  ascertained  from  what  she  heard  that  the  mul- 
titude were  in  search  of  Reveillon,  and  had  not  found  him,  she 
imagined  that  probably  Reveillon  had  taken  refuge  in  his  count- 
ing-house,  with  the  secrets  of  which  Ingenue  was  of  course  ac- 
quainted. 

Hither,  therefore,  she  hurried,  arriving,  as  we  have  seen,  just  in 
time  to  discover  Auger  in  the  act  of  setting  fire  to  the  strong- 
box, and  carrying  off  the  bag  of  gold. 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  Auger,  gazing  upon  Ingenue,  un- 
derstood that  she  must  either  be  his  victim  or  Jiis  accomplice. 
He  knew  her  too  well  to  hope  she  would  be  persuaded  to  become 
the  latter ;  nevertheless,  he  resolved  to  try. 


318  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

"  Let  me  pass,"  said  he ;  "  our  destinies  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon. I  give  you  up — I  will  never  claim  you  again— let  me  pass !" 

"  Let  you  pass !"  said  Ingenue ;  "  yes,  I  will,  but  not  with  Re- 
veillon's  gold." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  belongs  to  Reveillon  ?" 

"  Did  I  not  see  you  take  it  out  of  his  strong-box?" 

"  It  may  be  mine,  for  all  that." 

"Where  is  Reveillon?" 

"  Am  I  Reveillon 's  keeper?"  said  Auger. 

"  Have  you,  like  Cain,  who  answered  thus  after  his  brother's 
murder — have  you,  I  say,  killed  Reveillon  to  steal  his  gold  ?" 

"  Let  me  pass !"  said  Auger,  trying  to  put  her  aside. 

"  Thief  and  incendiary — murderer,  perhaps !"  said  Ingenue,  res- 
olutely putting  herself  against  the  door. 

Auger  hesitated ;  the  evil  spirit  was  tempting  him  most  terri- 
bly ;  but  still  he  paused. 

"Give  me  that  gold!  perhaps  your  benefactors  may  have  to 
starve  without  it.  Give  me  that  gold,  thief,  incendiary,  murderer, 


"Ah,  you  call  me  murderer,  do  you?" 

"I  do." 

"  And  you  want  this  gold?" 

"I  do." 

"  And  if  I  do  not  give  it  you,  you  will  betray  me,  will  you  ?" 

"  I  will,  so  help  me  God !" 

"I  don't  thiuk  you  will,  my  dear  Madame  Auger!"  with  such  a 
diabolical  look,  that  Ingenue  rushed  across  the  room,  and,  throw- 
ing open  the  window,  shouted,  in  a  loud  voice — 

"Thieves!  murder!  thieves!" 

But  her  voice  was  soon  choked  by  the  smoke,  which  entered  in 
volumes  through  the  open  windows,  and  Ingenue  was  obliged  to 
draw  back. 

Auger  dashed  up  to  her,  and,  dragging  her  from  the  window, 
seized  her  by  the  waist,  and,  holding  back  her  head,  plunged  his 
knife  into  her  bosom.  The  blood  spirted  forth  in  torrents,  and 
Ingenue  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  gasp  and  a  heavy  sigh. 


THE    FIRST    DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  379 

Auger,  then  seizing  lie  bag  of  gold,  made  the  best  of  his  way 
out  of  the  room,  stumbling  over  the  steps ;  for  the  smoke  and 
flames  almost  blinded  him;  and,  as  he  reached  the  garden,  he 
heard  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  room  he  had  left,  fall  in  with  a 
crash. 

What,  however,  the  wretch  did  not  see  was  that,  at  the  very 
instant  he  turned  from  Ingenue,  a  man  had  jumped  in  at  the  win- 
dow she  had  opened,  and  that,  gazing  around  him,  the  man  had 
wildly  exclaimed — 

"Ing6nue!  Ingenue!" 

It  was  no  other  than  Christian — Christian,  who,  as  long  as  In- 
genue had  been  with  him,  had  not  noticed  the  unusual  fermenta- 
tion of  the  Faubourg ;  but  who,  when  she  was  no  longer  with 
him,  had  fully  understood  the  state  in  which  it  was,  and  dreaded 
the  dangers  she  might  encounter. 

Going  round  to  the  front  of  Eeveillon's  house,  he  beheld  the  pil- 
lage and  destruction  that  was  going  on,  and  knew  that  into  this 
very  house  Ingenue  had  just  entered.  What  would  become  of  her  ? 
lie  might  yet  be  in  time  to  save  her. 

He  rushed  to  the  garden-door,  where  he  had  left  her.  Spite  of  all 
obstacles,  he  penetrated  into  the  court;  looking  around  him,  lie 
discovered  both  Ingenue  and  Auger,  for  the  flames  lighted  up  the 
Boene,  and  revealed  even  their  very  features. 

Surely  he  heard  a  cry.  It  was  Ingenue's  voice — it  was  a  cry  for 
help.  A  ladder  was  there  ;  to  put  it  against  the  window,  rush  up, 
dash  in,  and  exclaim  "  Ingenue !  Ingenue!"  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment — only  he  was  one  instant  too  late,  for  he  reached  the  floor 
just  as  Ingenue  fell,  wounded  and  bleeding,  upon  it. 

"  Ingenue !  Ingenue  I"  wildly  shrieked  the  young  lover ;  but  he 
saw  no  one — he  heard  no  reply. 

Suddenly  something  moved  at  his  feet,  a  voice  strove  to  utter 
his  name  :  he  stooped  ;  a  form,  a  bleeding  form,  made  an  effort  to 
reach  him.  It  was  Ingenue.  He  seized  her  in  his  arms.  The 
flames  were  wreathing  round  them  ;  he  clasped  her,  all  bleeding  as 
she  was,  to  his  bosom,  and  dashed  down  the  ladder,  leaving  trices 
of  blood  on  the  crackling  embers  as  he  passed. 
2G 


380  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

On,  on  he  carried  her,  amidst  the  whistling  of  the  balls  from  the 
musketry,  over  the  burning  stairs,  through  the  howling  crowd, 
bruised  by  the  falling  timbers,  bleeding  and  insensible :  still  on  he 
sped,  with  his  dear  and  precious  burthen ;  nor  stopped  till  he 
reached  a  darkened  alley,  where,  overpowered  and  exhausted,  he  fel 
on  the  pavement  with  Ingenue  beside  him. 


CHAPTER    LX. 

THE     POKTRAIT. 

No  ONE  took  any  notice  of  Christian  as  he  passed  ;  everybody 
was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  own  affairs  to  attend  to  those  of 
others. 

The  crowd  were  vieiug  with  each  other  in  destruction  ;  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  fighting  going  on,  much  drinking,  and  more  stealing ; 
the  house  presented  a  thorough  epitome  of  a  sacked  town. 

Without  the  Gardes  Franchises  were  keeping  up  a  regular  fire, 
and  gradually  getting  possession  of  the  street — confining  the 
rebels  to  the  house,  on  which  they  now  fully  glutted  their  vengeance. 

Christian,  having  passed  through  all  this,  now  sat  down  beside 
his  burthen,  and  strove  to  recover  his  strength  and  his  presence  of 
mind,  both  of  which  he  had  lost,  in  his  rapid  flight  and  the  con- 
fusion through  which  he  had  passed. 

Ingenue  lay  there  beside  him,  pale  and  bleeding ;  his  clothes  and 
her  own  were  saturated  with  blood.  She  was  completely  insensi- 
ble, and  her  heart  beat  but  faintly. 

Exhausted  as  he  was,  Christian's  first  impulse  was  to  lie  down 
and  die  beside  her ;  but  suddenly  a  sigh  from  Ingenue  gave  him 
hope. 

Might  he  not  save  her?  Perhaps  she  was  not  mortally 
wounded. 

At  tliis  thought,  Christian  took  her  once  more  in  his  arms,  and, 


THE   FIRST   DATS   OP   BLOOD.  381 

collecting  his  strength,  rushed  towards  the  Faubourg.  A  coach 
was  passing— he  hailed  it — it  stopped,  and  the  coachman  got  down. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ?"  said  he,  alarmed  at  the  sight  of  this 
young  officer,  with,  apparently,  a  dead  woman  in  his  arms. 

"  The  matter  is,  that,  being  with  my  sister  in  the  midst  of  the 
emeute  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  she  has  been  terribly  wounded, 
and  I  know  not  what  to  do." 

"  You  most  get  a  surgeon,"  said  the  good-hearted  coachman, 
"  and  that  quickly ;  here,  get  in,"  said  he,  opening  the  door  of  the 
vehicle,  "  and  give  me  the  poor  girl." 

Christian  mechanically  did  what  he  was  told.  He  got  in,  and 
took  poor  Ingenue  in  his  arms. 

"  I  know  a  surgeon,"  said  the  coachman. 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  we  call  him  the  poor  man's  friend." 

"  Go  on,  then,  as  fast  as  you  can." 

The  coachman  mounted  his  box,  and,  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  small  house,  in  a  little  narrow  street. 

"  Get  out,"  said  the  coachman,  "  and  never  fear ;  you  are  in 
good  hands." 

( 'liristian  got  out,  taking  Ingenue  in  his  arms. 

"  Up,  to  the  second  floor!"  said  the  coachman;  "  but,  see,  here 
comes  somebody  with  a  light." 

A  light  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  and  a  shrill  voice 
exclaimed — 

«  Who  is  there  ?" 

"  A  patient !"  replied  the  coachman.  "  Go  up,  sir ;  it's  the  sur- 
geon's housekeeper.  Shall  I  carry  the  young  lady?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Christian,  "I  can  carry  her,  myself;" 
and  he  began  to  ascend. 

"  I  will  wait  here,"  said  the  coachman ;  "  you  may  want  me 
again." 

( 'hristian  went  up  very  slowly ;  for,  at  every  step,  the  blood 
poured  in  fresh  torrents  from  the  wound.  The  light  still  gleamed 
from  the  second  story,  showing  Christian  where  to  set  his  feet  on 
the  narrow,  dirty  stairs. 


382  INGENUE;  OR, 

At  length  Christian  reached  the  second  story,  and  stood  before 
the  woman  who  had  spoken  and  who  held  the  light. 

She  was  a  miserable,  dirty-looking  old  woman,  such  as  are  only 
to  be  found  in  Paris,  the  city  of  extremes  in  all  concerning  woman- 
hood. 

Christian,  however,  as  may  be  supposed,  scarcely  looked  at  her, 
but,  entering  the  door  he  saw  open  before  him,  he  sought  a  place 
to  put  down  Ingenue. 

There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  no  sofa — only,  in  an  inner 
room,  Christian  spied  a  bed.  He  was  going  up  to  it,  when  the 
woman  exclaimed — 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  why,  you  will  spoil  master's  bed  !" 

"  "Where  shall  I,  then,  lay  down  this  poor  girl  ?" 

"  I  don't  know ;  not  on  the  bed,  certainly,  to  stain  it  with  all 
that  blood." 

Christian  was  disgusted  ;  to  him  the  bed  did  not  seem  worthy  of 
his  precious  burthen ;  nevertheless,  drawing  a  straw  arm-chair 
towards  him,  he  placed  Ingenue  upon  it,  and,  getting  another,  put 
up  her  feet,  so  as  to  make  a  sort  of  sofa. 

"  Is  your  master  not  at  home?"  said  he,  looking  up. 

The  light  now  fell  upon  his  face,  and  the  old  woman  exclaimed — 

"  I  declare,  Monsieur  Christian,  who  would  have  thought  it !" 

"  Do  you  know  me  ?"  said  Christian. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  know  me,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  after 
all  the  care  I  took  of  you." 

Christian  looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  Albertine  !"  said  he.    «  This  then  is  M.  Marat's  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

«  What !  has  he  left  the  Ecuries  d'Artois  ?" 

"  To  be  sure,  he  has ;  he  could  no  longer  serve  the  tyrants  ;  he 
has  resigned." 

Christian  looked  round  him  in  disgust.  He  felt  inclined  to  take 
up  Ingenue,  and  to  rush  away  with  her  ;  but  where  was  he  to  take 
her  ?  Then,  too,  he  remembered  all  the  care  bestowed  on  himself 
when  he  had  been  borne  wounded  and  bleeding  into  Marat's  house, 
and  he  resolved  to  wait. 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  383 

«  Where  is  Monsieur  Marat  ?"  said  he. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?"  said  Albertinc ;  "  about  his  business,  I 
suppose." 

"  Oh,  Madame  Albertine,"  said  Christian,  "  only  look  at  the  poor 
child  !  do  find  him." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  her  ?"  said  Albertine,  looking  at  the  fair 
and  lovely  creature,  with  the  hate  which  characterizes  age  and 
ugliness  when  it  looks  on  youth  and  beauty  ;  "  I  dou't  know  where 
my  master  is." 

"  Oh,  go  and  look  for  him,"  said  Christian ;  "  you  must  know 
where  to  find  him.  Here,  here,  take  all  this  gold." 

Albertine  seized  the  gold,  and,  putting  it  iuto  her  pocket  eagerly, 
was  about  to  proceed  in  search  of  Marat,  when  Ingenue  heaved  a 
deep  sigh. 

Christian  rushed  up,  and  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her, 
whilst  Albertiue  bent  over  her,  not  from  interest,  but  from 
curiosity. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  said  she  ;  and  her  eyes  rested  on  Christian,  and 
she  smiled. 

Christian  felt  as  if  that  smile  had  opened  to  him  the  gates  of 
paradise. 

"  You  are  safe,  dearest,  and  in  the  hands  of  a  surgeon,  who  will 
save  you,  as  he  did  me." 

"  Save  me  !  yes— oh,  yes ;  I  remember  ;"  said  Ingenue,  and  then, 
half  raising  herself,  she  looked  around  her. 

Suddenly,  she  started  as  though  Auger's  poniard  had  again 
struck  her.  Christian  followed  the  direction  of  her  glance,  and 
saw  it  rest  upon  a  dark  and  sombre  portrait,  opposite  to  her. 

lungene  extended  her  arm  towards  the  portrait. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  said  she. 

"  My  master,"  replied  Albertine,  "  Monsieur  Marat ;  the  portrait, 
too,  is  by  Monsieur  David,  and  a  very  fine  one,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Is  that  the  surgeon  ?"  gushed  out  Ingenue. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Christian. 

"  Do  you  think  that  man  shall  touch  me  ?  do  you  think  that. 
Christian?  Never!  never!" 

2G* 


384  INGENUE  J    OR, 

"  But,  why  not,  Ingenue  ?  you  can  rely  on  his  skill." 

"  Touch  me  again  ?  never !"  said  Ingenue,  greatly  excited. 

"  What  can  she  mean  ?"  said  Christian. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Albertine ;  "  you  know  how  skilful  Master 
is,  and  though  he  is  not  handsome,  he  certainly  is  not  a  monster." 

"  Oh !"  said  Ingenue,  "  take  me  away !" 

"  She  is  delirious,"  said  Albertine ;  "  you  mustn't  mind  what  she 
says." 

"  No,  no — I  am  not !"  said  Ingenue. 

"  But  you  do  not  know  Monsieur  Marat." 

"  Yes  I  do,  and  Charlotte  Corday  knows  him,  too.  He  shall 
not  touch  me !  Take  me  away,  Christian,  I  will  not  stay  here !" 

u  But  you  will  die  on  the  way,  my  Ingenue." 

"  I  don't  care.     I  would  rather  die  than  stay  here." 

"  Ingenue !  Ingenue  !  You  are  wandering  ;  you  know  not  what 
you  say." 

"  I  know  so  well,"  said  Ingenue,  starting  up  with  a  strength 
which  seemed  incredible,  after  the  blood  she  had  lost,  "  that  if  you 
do  not  take  me  away,  I  will  throw  myself  from  the  window." 

"  Ingenue !"  said  Christian,  imploringly. 

"  Take  me  away  !"  said  Ingenue. 

Scarcely  had  she  pronounced  these  words,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Marat  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

He  looked  sordid  and  dirty,  as  usual,  and  twisted  his  deformed 
body  like  a  wounded  spider.  Ingenue  no  sooner  saw  him,  than  she 
fell  back,  fainting  in  Christian's  arms.  Christian  hesitated  no 
longer.  Taking  her  up,  he  rushed  towards  the  stairs. 

Marat,  who  had  recognized  him,  tried  in  vain  to  stop  him.  He 
entreated,  in  the  most  affectionate  terms  ;  but  Christian  would  not 
listen  to  him.  He  did  not  pause  until  he  reached  the  hackney 
coach. 

"  Where  are  we  going  now  ?"  said  the  coachman. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Christian. 

Marat,  meantime,  opened  the  window,  and  called  out — 

"  Stay,  Christian !  Christian !" 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  385 

Christian  was  astonished  at  the  familiarity  of  the  appellation ; 
but  the  voice  inspired  him  with  a  desire  to  get  beyond  its  reach. 

"  To  the  Louvre !  to  the  Louvre !"  cried  he,  inspired  with  a 
sudden  idea ;  and  the  coachman  drove  off  at  full  speed. 

"  Who  is  that  gipsey  that  Christian  brought  here  ?"  inquired 
Marat  of  Albertine. 

"  I  dont  know,"  said  Albertine ;  "  all  1  know  ia,  that  when  she 
saw  your  portrait,  she  said  you  were  a  monster." 

••  Aha!"  said  Marat,  with  a  laugh.  "  My  friend  David  would 
be  very  much  flattered,  if  he  knew  how  much  his  portrait  resembled 
me.  So,  you  don't  know  her  name  ?" 

•'  No ;  I  did  not  hear  it ;  but  she  named  one  of  her  friends — 
Charlotte  Corday." 

"  Charlotte  Corday,"  said  Marat,  musing ;  "  I  never  heard  of 
her."  Then,  taking  up  his  candle,  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  room, 
muttering — 

44  Aha  I    So  these  women  think  me  a  monster !" 


CHAPTER    LXI. 

THE     KEY     OF     PARADISE. 

CHRISTIAN  knew  his  way  perfectly  about  the  Louvre ;  the  palace 
was  not  inhabited  by  the  royal  family,  and  was  left  to  the  officers 
on  guard  and  to  the  attendants  of  the  palace. 

Going  up  one  of  the  back  stairs,  he  entered  an  apartment  in 
which,  in  solemn  state,  without  either  sheets  or  blankets,  but  in  all 
the  solemn  grandeur  of  velvet  and  brocade,  was  a  large,  splendid 
bed.  On  this  he  placed  Ingenue,  whose  wound  had  now  ceased  to 
bleed,  and  who  complained  of  nothing  but  violent  thirst. 

Having  procured  her  some  water,  he  settled  her  on  the  down 
pillows,  covering  her  with  the  velvet  and  gold  counterpaines.  and 
after  pressiag  his  lips  to  her  forehead,  sat  down  to  watch  beside 
her. 

17 


386  INGENUE;  OR, 

'  '•".  ""  • 

Ingenue,  exhausted,  no  sooner  felt  herself  safe,  than  she  fell  into 
a  profound  slumber. 

Then  Christian  began  to  think  of  all  that  had  happened ;  of  the 
dangers  he  had  gone  through,  and  of  the  dangers  which  awaited 
him. 

There  was  Ingenue  beside  him ;  but  what  was  to  become  of 
them  ?  persecuted  by  Auger,  by  Retif,  and  probably  by  the 
countess,  who  would  reject  Ingenue  and  refuse  to  help  them. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  There  were  but  a  few  hours  to  decide  in 
• — a  few  hours  to  decide  on  the  destiny  of  two  lives.  Ingenue  slept 
calmly  on ;  the  nervous  trembling  which  had  oppressed  her  had  sub- 
sided ;  she  breathed  gently  as  a  child,  and  the  soft  color  began  to 
return  to  her  pale  lips. 

Christian  gazed  at  her  until  the  complication  of  his  position  half 
maddened  him,  and  he  rushed  forth  into  the  open  air  to  relieve  his 
heated  brain. 

As  he  entered  the  court,  a  carriage,  preceded  by  an  escort  and 
torch  bearers,  drove  furiously  up  to  the  portico.  Christian,  bewil- 
dered as  he  was,  scarcely  moved  to  let  the  cortege  pass ;  but,  as 
the  carriage  drove  by,  he  had  just  presence  of  mind  sufficient  to 
recognize  within  it  his  friend  the  Count  d'Artois. 

At  the  sight  of  the  prince,  Christian  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind. 

"  Oh,  God,  I  thank  thee  !"  said  he ;  "  we  are  saved — the  prince 
will  save  us." 

The  prince  had  hastened  to  Paris,  on  the  news  sent  to  Ver- 
sailles, of  the  pillage  and  "revolt  going  on  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Antoine.  The  queen  had  affected  to  laugh  at  the  news ;  but  the 
prince  had  ordered  his  carriage,  resolved  to  see  to  what  extremi- 
ties the  Parisians  were  going,  now  that  they  had  begun. 

Christian  was  one  of  the  first  to  salute  the  prince  as  he  alighted, 
and  heard  his  first  questions,  which  related  to  the  emeutes  of  the 
Faubourg. 

"  I  can  give  your  highness  better  details  than  any  one  else," 
said  Christian,  "  for  I  am  just  arrived  from  the  Faubourg  St.  An- 
toine, as  your  highness  may  see  from  the  state  in  which  I  am." 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  381 

"Why,  you  are  covered  with  blood,"  said  the  prince  ;  "  are  they 
fighting  there  ?" 

"  Not  only  fighting,  but  killing  and  pillaging." 

"  Come,  then,  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  the  prince,  going 
towards  one  of  the  drawing-rooms. 

Christian  followed  the  prince,  and  told  him  the  terrible  events 
through  which  he  had  passed. 

"  More  enemies !''  said  the  prince ;  "  but  tell  me,  is  this  a  mere 
attempt  on  Reveillon,  or  is  it  an  organized  revolt  ?" 

As  the  prince  spoke,  M.  de  Bizenval,  who  had  been  to  the  Fau- 
bourg St  Antoine,  entered. 

"  What  news?"  said  the  count,  eagerly. 

"  Your  highness  will  hear  the  cannon  before  long.  Tour 
highness  can  form  no  idea  of  the  crowd  assembled.  There  are 
more  than  twenty  thousand  persons." 

"  It  is,  then,  a  serious  revolt  ?" 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  replied  the  baron  ;  "  pillage,  fire,  and  murder  ; 
that  is  what  it  is." 

"  Great  Heaven  1  how  long  will  it  last  ?" 

"  As  long  as  there  is  any  one  left  to  fight." 

"  Thank  you,  baron,"  said  the  prince  ;  "  I  will  detain  you  no 
longer." 

The  officer  withdrew,  and  the  prince,  much  affected  by  what  he 
had  hoard,  paced  the  room  in  great  agitation.  At  length  he  per- 
ceived Christian,  and  noticed  his  agitation. 

"  How  pale  you  look,  count !"  said  he,  taking  his  hand  ;  "  how 
horribly  pale  you  look  1" 

"  I  ought  to  be  dead,"  replied  Christian. 

"  What  can  you  mean,  Christian,  my  good  friend  ?" 

"  Will  your  highness  listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"  Most  certainly  I  will ;  speak." 

"  Oh,  prince,  at  this  very  moment,  perhaps,  Ingenue  is  dying." 

The  prince  started  ;  then  Christian,  clasping  his  hands,  related 
to  the  count  the  terrible  catastrophe  of  Ingenue's  assassination,  of 
their  horrible  flight,  and  of  her  present  precarious  state. 

"What  is  to  become  of  us?    If  she  dies,  I  shall  not  survive 


388  INGENUE  J    OR, 

her.  If  she  recovers,  I  most  give  her  back  to  her  father — to  her 
husband.  Oh,  will  you  not  aid  me.  will  you  not  save  us  both  ?" 

The  prince  had  listened  with  the  most  profound  interest.  When 
Christian  had  finished  his  recital,  he  rose,  and,  going  towards  a 
table,  on  which  his  desk  had  on  his  arrival  been  deposited  by  his 
valet,  he  put  his  finger  to  his  lips ;  then,  looking  towards  Chris- 
tian with  a  smile,  he  said — 

"  Come  here !" 

Christian  drew  near,  and  the  prince,  having  opened  the  desk, 
drew  from  it  a  small  key,  which  he  placed  in  the  page's  hand. 

"  Take  this,"  said  he,  "  and  listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say. 
Follow  well  my  directions ;  do  not  miss  one  of  them  ;  this  is  the 
key  of  paradise." 


CHAPTER    LXII. 

REAL  AND  PRETENDED  SORROW. 

CHRISTIAN,  possessed  of  this  key,  which  was  the  key  of  one  of 
the  prince's  houses  with  the  waving  trees,  of  which  he  had  already 
spoken  to  his  page,  conveyed  Ingenue  to  a  safe  retreat,  where,  at 
length,  he  could  procure  every  care  for  her. 

Meanwhile,  we  will  return  to  Retif,  who  found  himself  in  the 
midst  of  the  events  which  were  so  perplexing  both  Paris  and  Ver- 
sailles, and  which  certainly  had  quite  as  bewildering  an  effect  upon 
him. 

The  first  thing  Retif  resolved  to  save  was  his  life ;  for  Retif, 
rather  sceptical  as  to  the  other  world,  had  an  intense  desire  to 
remain  in  this.  Then  Retif  thought  of  his  daughter. 

But  he  knew  she  was  out,  and,  probably,  with  Christian  ;  there- 
fore, for  her  he  felt  no  anxiety. 

JN"ext,  he  thought  of  his  manuscripts — those  other  children,  after 
Ingenue,  the  dearest  things  he  had  in  the  world. 

Having  assured  himself  that  the  staircase  was  still  safe,  Retif 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF  BLOOD.  389 

rushed  back  to  his  room,  and  began  getting  together  a  bundle  of 
papers,  which  had  nothing  very  tempting  in  their  appearance,  but 
which  the  flames  would  probably  not  have  spared,  any  more  than 
the  waves  did  the  Luciad  of  Camogns. 

Having  collected  his  papers,  and  filled  his  pockets  with  as  much 
type  as  they  could  contain,  Retif  made  the  best  of  his  way  down 
stairs,  and  so  out  at  the  garden  gate  into  the  street. 

There,  being  in  safety,  the  poor  author  sat  down  to  gaze  at  the 
effect  of  the  fire ;  and,  having  sufficiently  contemplated  it,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  think  where  next  he  was  to  go.  As  he  was  ruminating, 
the  first  fusillade  of  the  Gardes  Franchise  resounded  on  the  Place 
de  la  Bastille.  Retif,  remembering  the  fusillade  of  the  Place 
Dauphine,  resolved  on  getting  as  far  away  from  this  as  possible. 

But,  where  was  he  to  go,  and  what  was  to  become  of  Ingenue, 
when  Ingenue  should  return  home ;  or,  rather,  when  she  should 
find  no  home  to  return  to  ? 

Where  should  he  go  ?  Why,  the  only  place  he  could  think  of, 
was  his  old  lodging,  which  he  had  never  ceased  to  think  of  with 
affection — his  lodging  in  the  Rue  des  Bcrnardins ;  thither  he 
resolved  to  go. 

So  off  he  set,  delighted  at  having  had  so  bright  a  thought.  It 
was  not  quite  dark  when  he  reached  the  house ;  he  rang  the  bell, 
and  eagerly  inquired  for  the  landlord,  who  lived  on  the  first  floor. 
The  landlord  was  at  home,  and  received  Retif  most  cordially,  for 
Retif  had  always  paid  his  rent  exactly,  and  had  not  owed  a  sou  to 
anybody  when  he  left.  Besides,  he  came  from  the  Faubourg, 
where  the  emeute  was  going  on.  Everybody  was  interested  in  the 
emeute,  and  Retif  could  tell  them  all  the  details,  first-hand,  for  it 
was  actually  Retifs  house  that  all  the  emeute  was  about,  and  they 
had  actually  burnt  it  down  about  his  ears.  Having,  as  well  as  ail 
the  neighbors,  listened  most  curiously  to  all  these  details,  the  land- 
lord most  politely  proposed  that  Retif  should  take  possession  of  h'a 
former  lodging,  which  had  not  yet  been  let  to  another  tenant ; 
offering,  also,  to  lend  him  two  beds,  four  chairs,  and  a  table,  until 
such  time  as  Rotif  and  his  publisher  could  afford  to  give  him  a 
more  splendid  outfit. 


S90  INGENUE;  OR, 

Thus  established,  having  arranged  his  manuscripts  on  the  table, 
and  taken  the  type  from  his  pocket,  Retif  began  to  walk  up  and 
down,  in  expectation  of  the  arrival  of  Ingenue,  for  so  certain  was 
he  of  Ingenue's  intelligence,  that  he  never  for  an  instant  doubted 
that  when  Ingenue  found  there  was  no  longer  either  father  or 
home  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  Ingenue  would  instantly  come 
and  seek  both  father  and  home  in  the  Eue  des  Bernardius. 

He  waited  for  some  time  with  exemplary  patience,  and  without 
any  great  anxiety  ;  so  many  things  might  occur  to  retard  Ingenue 
— the  sorrow  of  the  Reveillons  to  console — the  difficulty  of  getting 
through  the  streets — the  distance — a  thousand  things  might  inter- 
vene to  retard  Ingenue  ;  but  Ingenue  would  come,  he  felt  no  doubt 
of  that,  and  that  she  was  also  safe,  he  felt  confident ;  for,  after  all, 
even  if  she  should  get  into  the  crowd,  Auger  was  there  to  protect 
her,  and  he  could  not  imagine  that  Auger  would  not  look  to  the 
safety  of  his  wife. 

Having  paced  the  room  for  some  time,  Retif,  to  beguile  the 
time,  sat  down  and  began  to  write  an  account  of  the  events  of  the 
morning  ;  but  as  the  liberty  of  the  press  was  somewhat  limited — as 
a  true  and  succint  account  might  have  led  to  inflame  the  passions 
of  the  multitude,  Retif  was  obliged  to  change  the  scene  of  action 
from  Paris  to  the  country,  transporting  Reveillon's  substantial 
house  into  a  chateau  in  the  country,  and  the  ragged  multitude  of 
Paris  into  a  ragged  multitude  of  country  boors.  With  the  same 
poetical  license  he  changed  his  friend  Reveillon  from  a  purse-proud, 
silly  citizen,  into  a  tyrannical,  overbearing  lord ;  thus  giving  quite 
a  romantic  turn  to  the  somewhat  vulgar  adventures  in  which  he 
had  played  a  part. 

Lost  in  the  charms  of  composition,  Retif  had  begun  to  forget 
the  truth  and  the  true  characters,  and  to  become  completely  ab- 
sorbed in  the  imaginary  ones  he  was  creating,  when  the  door  was 
suddenly  burst  open,  and  Auger,  pale,  breathless  and  exhausted, 
rushed  like  an  avalanche  into  the  room. 

Auger  had  evidently  been  running,  and  appeared  still  disposed  to 
run,  for  he  dashed  up  to  the  opposite  wall,  when  he  entered,  as 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF   BLOOD.  391 

though  intending  to  go  through  it,  and  then  turned  to  Retif  with 
a  groan. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  is  that  indeed  you?" 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  replied  Retif ;  "  who  else  should  it  be  ?  Didn't 
you  come  here  to  look  for  me?" 

"  Certainly ;  but " 

"  You  guessed  I  should  think  of  coming  back  here  ?" 

"  I  did,"  said  Auger. 

"  But  you  are  not  alone,  are  you  ?    Where  is  Ingenue  ?" 

"  Ingenue,  ah  1" 

"Why  do  you  say,  'Ingenue,  ah!'  like  a  tyrant  in  a  meio- 
drame  ?"  said  Retif. 

"Oh,  Ingenue!  Ingenue!"  exclaimed  Auger,  sinking  into  a 
chair. 

"Well,  speak — speak!"  said  Retif,  growing  more  and  more 
anxious. 

Auger  replied  only  by  a  groan. 

"  Ingenue !"  repeated  Retif. 

"  Oh !  if  you  knew !"  replied  Auger,  with  a  howl. 

Retif,  feeling  a  presentiment  of  some  terrible  misfortune,  rose 
from  the  table  where  he  had  been  sitting,  and  going  up  to  Auger, 
said,  with  that  resolution  and  firmness  all  those  who  exercise  soul 
and  intellect  will  ever  find — in  a  commanding  voice —  » 

"  Tell  me  the  worst.    Where  is  she  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  Not  know  where  my  child  is?" 

"  No." 

"  You  do,"  replied  Retif,  after  gazing  intently  at  him  ;  "  I  see 
you  do." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Indeed  you  do ;  and  whatever  you  have  to  tell,  I  bid  you  tell 
it  to  me  now." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Auger,  in  a  feeble  voice,  and  with  many  sobs, 
"  You  know  that  amongst  my  other  employments  at  Monsieur 
Reveillon's,  was  that  of  treasurer." 

"  I  do." 

2H 


392  INGENUE  J   OR, 

"  You  know,  probably,  that  Ingenue  went  out  this  morning  at 
about  one  o'clock." 

"With  the  Demoiselles  Reveillon,"  said  Retif— prudent  old 
father. 

"  I  don't  know  who  with." 

"Well,  no  matter." 

"  Well,  it  appears  that  she  returned  and  attempted  to  penetrate 
into  a  portion  of  the  building." 

"  It  appears — don't  you  know  who  saw  her  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Auger.  "  I  say  it  appears,  because  it  is  not  very 
certain." 

"  Not  very  certain,  man  !"  exclaimed  Retif ;  "  do  not  torture 
me,  but  go  on  with  your  story ;  tell  me  the  worst  at  once." 

"  Well,  at  the  last  moment,  anxious  to  save  something  for  my 
patron,  I  was  trying  to  penetrate  into  the  counting-house,  which 
was  in  flames,  and  into  which  Ingenue  had  been  seen  to  enter, 
when  on  reaching  the  inner  room,  I  found  that  the  ceiling  had 
given  way,  the  walls  fallen  in,  and  that  all  that  remained  was " 

"  Was  what?"  gasped  Retif. 

"  The  dead  body." 

"What  dead  body?— whose  dead  body?"  said  Retif,  with  such 
an  expression  of  agony,  that  it  must  have  been  as  great  a  torture 
to  Auger  to  witness  it  as  any  he  was  destined  to  receive  in  hell  for 
his  crimes.  "  Do  you  mean  the  dead  body  of  my  child  ?" 

Auger  was  silent,  and  Retif  sunk  back  on  his  chair ;  then, 
closing  his  eyes,  with  the  fatal  power  of  a  man  gifted  with  imagi- 
nation, he  followed  his  daughter  through  the  flames,  through  the 
tortures  of  her  death,  and  beheld  her  lifeless  at  his  feet.  Then 
turning  to  Auger,  he  murmured,  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice — 

"  She  was  quite  dead?" 

"  Dead,  burned,  disfigured,  terribly  disfigured,  though  I  recog- 
nized her  instantly.''  . 

Retif  reflected  again,  for  a  few  minutes ;  then,  with  the  obstinacy 
of  despair,  he  desired  Auger  to  repeat  the  whole  story  to  him,  in 
all  its  horrible  details.  When  he  had  heard  all  again,  and  felt  that 


THE    FIRST    DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  393 

his  misfortune  was  beyond  a  doubt,  the  old  man  bent  down  his 
head  and  wept. 

Anger  rushed  up  to  him,  and,  kneeling  before  him,  mingled  his 
sobs  with  those  of  his  father-in-law. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Retif,  you  have  still  a  son ;  if  you  cannot  love 
him  as  you  did  her,  love  him  a  little  for  her  sake." 

"  Ah,  Auger,"  replied  Retif,  "  there  is  no  daughter,  no  child  in 
the  world  that  could  replace  Ingenue." 

"  I  will  love  you  so  much ;  I  will  be  ever  by  your  side ;  ever 
attentive ;  ever  with  you !" 

"  Ah,  Auger,  it  is  of  no  use." 

"Then,  M.  Retif,  what  do  you  Uiink  I  must  feel— I,  her  hus- 
band?" 

"  Hum !"  said  Retif,  somewhat  drily,  as  he  remembered  Ingenue's 
history. 

"  Let  me  stay  with  you ;  it  is  my  only  consolation  now,  and  I 
have  not  had  much  happiness  in  life,  you  know,  M.  Retif." 

Poor,  tender-hearted  Retif  was  touched,  and  extended  his  hand 
to  Auger.  Auger,  without  any  apparent  scruple,  took,  with  the 
hand  which  had  assassinated  the  daughter,  the  hand  of  the  father, 
and  carried  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  sir !"  said  Auger ;  "  what  am  I  but  a  mere  mechanic,  com- 
pared to  you?  how  could  I  get  through  life  alone?  Oh,  sir,  do 
take  me  under  your  protection — let  me  live  with  you — let  me  be 
your  son !" 

"  As  you  will,  Anger,"  replied  Retif. 

"  Then  you  consent?"  said  Auger,  with  such  an  explosion  of  joy 
that  it  made  Retif  look  up  from  his  tears ;  "  then  you  will  let  me 
live  with  you  ?" 

"  If  you  like,  Auger ;"  said  the  unsuspecting  Retif. 

Auger  launched  forth  into  profuse  expressions  of  gratitude — his 
end  was  attained.  It  appeared  to  him,  that,  living  with  the  father 
as  an  affectionate  son,  he  could  never  be  suspected  of  having  assas- 
sinated the  daughter. 

But  Anger  moderated  his  joy,  for  he  felt  it  was  necessary  to 
feign  a  becoming  sorrow  for  the  catastrophe  which  had  placed  the 
17* 


894  INGENUE  ;  OR, 

good  old  man  so  entirely  in  his  power.  He  strove  to  weep,  but 
Heaven,  not  being  his  accomplice,  refused  him  tears ;  so  he  was 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  groans  and  contortions  ;  so  that,  at 
last,  it  was  Retif  who  was  obliged  to  console  Auger. 

Then,  after  another  effusion  of  sorrow,  they  made  their  arrange- 
ments for  the  night.  Retif  was  left  alone,  weeping  and  sobbing 
for  the  child  of  his  heart,  and  Auger  retired  to  his  couch,  rejoicing 
in  the  success  of  his  plans,  and  cursing  the  lamentations  of  his 
father-in-law,  because  they  prevented  his  sleeping. 


CHAPTER    LXIII. 

A    FIRST    PROOF-SHEET   OF    ONE    OF   RETIF   DE    LA    BRETONNE's 
NOVELS. 

THE  conduct  of  Auger  towards  his  father-in-law,  and  their  great 
affection,  were  the  theme  of  every  tongue.  Ingenue's  terrible  fate 
had  excited  great  interest.  So  young,  so  lovely,  beloved  by  all, 
her  untimely  death  created  universal  sympathy,  and  considerably 
increased  the  interest  felt  for  the  Reveillons. 

Poor  Retif !  he  tried  to  resume  his  occupations,  and  to  calm  his 
sorrow  ;  but  Ingenue  was  so  interwoven  with  his  existence,  so 
thoroughly  the  child  of  his  love,  that  he  felt  as  if  his  soul  was 
buried  with  her  in  her  grave,  and  that  he  was  but  a  wandering 
spirit  on  earth,  without  hope  or  aim.  Sorrow,  like  the  waves  upon 
the  rock  the  tide  washes  every  day,  made  deep  furrows  on  poor 
Retif  s  brow,  and  his  trembling  hands  held  the  type  mechanically 
and  feebly. 

As  for  Auger,  who  was  not  a  father,  and  could  scarcely  havo 
been  called  a  husband,  he  recovered  himself  very  soon ;  ate,  drank, 
and  slept,  and  went  about  his  usual  avocations,  just  as  before. 
Occasionally,  however,  whenever  he  thought  of  it,  he  would  assume 
an  air  of  compunction,  or  a  look  of  profound  sorrow,  particularly 
when  he  happened  to  be  out  in  the  street  with  his  father-in-law ; 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  895 

and  the  neighbors  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  door  to  see  them  pass 
by,  greeting  both  father  and  son  with  looks  of  tender  sympathy, 
which  satisfied  the  one  and  soothed  the  other. 

Auger  had  taken,  as  his  room,  the  one  formerly  occupied  by 
Ingenue,  and  had  furnished  it  with  a  bed,  two  chairs,  and  a  table, 
which  table  was  the  one  on  which  the  father  and  son  took  their 
meals. 

Auger  was  almost  all  day  out,  returning  late  for  his  meals,  being, 
it  was  supposed,  much  occupied,  though  what  occupation  Auger 
could  find,  now  that  Reveillon  had  no  longer  any  counting-house,  is 
a  question  which  might,  perhaps,  be  asked.  But  Auger,  who  was 
a  man  of  imagination,  had  found  an  occupation,  and  had  made 
himself  inspector  of  the  works  now  going  on  amongst  the  ruins  of 
Reveillon's  house ;  watching  over  every  plank  or  beam  that  was 
taken  out  of  them,  with  as  much  zeal  and  energy  as  though 
Reveillon  had  still  been  a  rich  man,  and  could  reward  him — con- 
duct which  very  much  edified  Reveillon  and  all  who  observed  it. 

Retif,  alone,  could  not  understand  how  his  son  could  every  day 
return  to  the  place  where  Ingenue  had  been  lost,  and  every  evening 
bring  him  accounts  of  the  state  of  the  works,  which  nearly  broke 
the  old  man's  heart 

But  Auger  cared  very  little  about  Retif  s  feelings ;  all  he  had 
wanted  to  do  in  the  interest  of  his  own  safety  he  had  done  ;  he  had 
thoroughly  persuaded  the  neighbors  of  his  affection  for  his  father- 
in-law,  and  of  the  good  understanding  between  them. 

One  day,  the  evening  repast,  prepared  by  the  hands  of  Auger, 
being  ready,  Auger  called  his  father-in-law  to  the  table. 

Retif,  rising,  with  a  sigh,  left  his  printing-press,  where  he  was 
setting  up  stanzas  to  the  memory  of  Sicadelia  and  Zephira,  by 
which  mysterious  and  mythological  names  he,  of  course,  meant 
Ingenue,  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  street  door. 

Auger,  who  was  a  little  of  an  epicure,  and  took  care  to  provide 
good  dinners  for  himself  and  his  guest,  was  just  in  the  act  of  hand- 
ing a  plate  of  savory  soup  to  Retif,  when  this  knock  resounded. 

He  took  very  little  notice  of  the  knock,  till,  presently,  it  was 
repeated  ;  then,  again,  there  was  another  stroke,  and  then  another. 


396  INGENUE  ;    OR, 

Betif  lived  on  the  fourth  story ;  these  four  knocks,  therefore, 
were  for  him.  They  roused  his  attention,  and,  going  to  the  win- 
dow, he  opened  it  and  looked  out. 

Auger,  whose  conscience  dreaded  every  unusual  sound,  also  rose, 
and,  opening  the  other  window,  looked  out  also. 

There  was,  however,  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at,  for  the  person 
who  had  knocked  was  no  other  than  an  auvergnat,  the  usual  mes- 
Bengera  of  Paris,  who  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
looking  up,  in  hopes  of  an  answer  to  his  summons. 

"  Come  up,"  said  Retif,  pulling  a  string,  which  from  every  floor 
communicated  with  the  street  door,  and  opened  it.  The  messen- 
ger obeyed,  was  soon  heard  stamping  up  the  stairs,  then  at  the  door, 
and  finally  he  entered  the  room. 

Going  up  to  Retif,  the  man  put  into  his  hands  a  roll  of  papers — 
proofs,  such  as  Retif  was  often  in  the  habit  of  receiving. 

Retif  took  them,  without  the  slightest  suspicion  of  anything 
unusual ;  and  Auger,  seeing  his  father-in-law  occupied,  sat  down  to 
the  table,  so  as  to  be  able  to  profit  by  his  absence,  to. eat  with  a 
less  sentimental  appetite  than  that  which  became  his  supposed 
sorrow. 

Retif,  meanwhile,  drew  near  the  window  to  examine  what  was 
sent  to  him  ;  and  then,  as  he  looked  on  the  papers,  a  mortal  pallor, 
followed  by  an  almost  purple  hue,  overspread  his  aged  countenance. 

This  is  what  he  read; 

"  Do  not  throw  away  emotion  on  reading  this  ;  remember  that 
you  are  a  man  and  a  philosopher. 

"  Burn  this  as  soon  as  you  have  read  it,  and  come  as  soon  as 
possible  to  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  near  the  barrier,  to  a  house  sur- 
rounded by  a  garden,  at  the  gate  of  which  there  are  two  stone 
lions. 

"  Give  your  name  to  the  servant,  who  will  open  the  door  ;  he 
will  immediately  admit  you.  Follow  him,  and  you  will  find  your- 
self in  a  few  minutes  in  the  arms  of  your  daughter  Ingenue,  olive 
still,  though  only  just  recovering  from  the  effects  of  the  wounds 
inflicted  on  her  by  her  husband,  M.  Auger,  who  stabbed  her  in 


THE    FIRST    DAY3    OF    BLOOD.  397 

Reveillon's  counting-house,  because  she  strove  to  prevent  his  rob* 
robbing  his  patron. 

"  Above  all  do  not  let  your  manner  betray  you  to  the  wretch 
who  is  near  you — much  depends  on  that ;  and  come  quickly,  for 
you  are  waited  for  impatiently." 

Retif  stood  for  some  minutes  gazing  on  that  paper,  with  hia 
blood  rushing  to  his  heart  and  brain,  with  the  rapidity  which 
causes  apoplexy  and  paralysis  ;  till  at  length,  recovering  himself,  he 
exclaimed — 

"  What  proof !  I  never  saw  euch  proof  I  These  printers  get 
worse  and  worse  every  day  1" 

With  these  words,  he  thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket,  without 
Auger  having  once  looked  up  from  his  dinner,  or  suspected  that 
anything  extraordinary  was  going  on. 

Then  he  sat  down  to  dinner  opposite  his  son-in-law,  and  leisurely 
and  calmly  began  to  eat,  beguiling  the  time  by  references  and 
anecdotes  of  Ingenue,  and  ending  by  requesting  Auger  to  recount 
once  more  the  history  of  her  death. 

Retif  was  even  more  overpowered  by  this  recital  than  he  had 
ever  been,  and  Auger  was  even  more  affectionate  than  ever  in  con- 
soling him. 

At  length,  Retif  and  Auger,  perfectly  happy  and  friendly 
together,  rose  from  table — Auger  full  of  anticipations  and  plans  for 
the  future — Retif  all  cordiality  and  resignation. 

"  Have  you  dined  well  ?"  said  Retif. 

"  Yes,  dear  father,"  replied  Auger,  with  a  sigh. 

"  And  even  virtue  likes  a  good  dinner,"  said  Retif. 

But  Auger,  accustomed  to  hear  his  father-in-law  spout  provebs 
and  axioms,  took  no  notice  of  this  phrase,  but  left  the  room  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  going  out  for  the  evening,  as  was  his  custom. 

Retif  took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  burn  the  letter,  as  he 
had  been  desired.  .-„,  &;, 

"  What  have  you  been  burning  ?"  said  Auger,  as  he  returned, 
more  from  curiosity  than  anxiety. 

"  A  chapter  of  my  last  composition,"  replied  Retif. 


398  INGEXUE;  OR, 

"  "Why  waste  a  whole  chapter,"  said  Auger,  "  when  once  it  has 
been  written  ?" 

"  Because  it  contained  some  joyous  and  merry  passages ;  and 
when  I  read  them  over,  I  was  shocked  to  think  that  I  could  have 
written  them  so  soon  after  Ingenue's  death." 

"  Ah  1"  said  Auger,  with  a  deep  sigh,  drawing  out  his  handker- 
chief; "ah!"  and  this  being  a  very  good  exit  speech,  Auger  de- 
parted. 

Betif  watched  him  on  his  way  from  the  window  ;  then,  taking 
off  his  old  dressing-gown,  he  put  on  his  old  coat  and  hat,  and  went 
down  into  the  street  But  knowing  now  the  perfidy  of  his  enemy, 
he  forbore  to  hurry ;  and  lest  he  should  be  watched,  he  stopped  at 
all  his  neighbors,  listened  to  their  condolences,  and  related,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  the  melancholy  history  of  his  child's  death.  Peo- 
ple never  tire  of  hearing  a  horrible  catastrophe  from  the  lips  of 
one  of  the  interested  parties. 

At  length,  thinking  himself  perfectly  safe,  he  hurried  on,  mak- 
ing, with  a  beating  heart,  the  best  of  his  way  to  the  place  ap- 
pointed. 


CHAPTER    LXIY. 

WHAT   CAN   BE   SEEN  THROUGH   A   GIMLET   HOLE. 

EETIF,  as  he  proceeded  along  the  streets,  could  not  refrain  from 
expressing  his  joy,  in  various  invocations  to  fortune  and  to  Inge- 
nue. He  had,  it  is  true,  some  occasional  doubts,  and  some  fears  as 
to  the  truth  of  this  news,  which  had  made  him  so  happy.  The 
hand-writing  was  unknown  to  him — the  messenger,  and  the  house 
to  which  he  was  directed.  Could  it  be  some  trick  of  Auger's  ? 
Still  he  determined  on  proceeding ;  he  would  have  dared  any  risk 
to  see  his  child.  At  length  he  came  in  sight  of  the  house ;  the 
door  was  opened,  and  in  another  instant  Ingenue  was  clasped  in 
his  arms — Ingenue,  his  beautiful  child,  alive  through  the  care  of 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  399 

Christian ;  Ingenue,  the  idol  of  his  heart,  was  restored  not  only 
to  life  but  to  happiness.  Poor  Retif  could  scarce  contain  his  joy. 

It  was,  however,  necessary  to  conceal  it;  and  Retif,  resolved 
to  do  so,  took  care  to  reach  home  before  Auger.  His  eyes  were, 
it  is  true,  a  little  red  ;  but,  then,  Auger  could  not  tell  whether  they 
were,  as  usual,  tears  of  sorrow  or  tears  of  joy,  which  he  had  shed  in 
his  absence. 

On  his  way  home,  Retif  had  bought  a  pretty  large  gimlet,  with 
which  he  had  pierced  a  hole  in  the  wall  which  divided  his  room 
from  that  of  Auger ;  he  had,  however,  taken  care  to  place  it  in  the 
centre  of  a  dark  flower,  so  that  Auger  could  not  perceive  it,  and  in 
such  a  place  as  commanded  a  view  of  the  whole  room. 

So  impatient  was  Retif  to  try  his  experiment,  that  he  feigned 
illness  and  retired  to  his  bed,  at  the  head  of  which  was  the  orifice 
in  question.  Through  this  he  watched  Auger  enter,  candle  in  hand, 
which  lighted  up  the  base  ferocity  of  his  features,  now  left  to  their 
natural  expression,  while  he  was  thus  alone.  He  threw  himself 
listlessly  into  a  chair,  and  looked  around  him.  Suddenly  he  ap- 
peared to  remember  that  he  had  forgotten  something  ;  and  rising, 
Retif  heard  him  come  out  of  his  room  and  enter  his,  no  doubt  to 
pay  him  his  accustomed  visit. 

Retif,  whose  very  soul  revolted  at  the  approach  of  this  man, 
since  he  had  been  made  aware  of  his  treachery,  feigned  sleep,  and 
had  courage  to  keep  his  eyes  closed  whilst  Auger  leant  over  him, 
though  he  always  felt  that  the  man  would  perhaps  stab  him  in  his 
sleep. 

Auger  returned  to  his  room — Retif  to  his  observations.  He 
beheld  Auger,  after  carefully  locking  the  door,  stop  up  the  key-hole, 
and  then  carry  before  the  door  a  table  and  a  trunk.  After  this,  he 
closed  the  shutters  and  the  curtains. 

"What  is  he  going  to  do?"  said  Retif;  "there  is  nobody  near 
to  murder." 

Retif,  however,  was  still  more  startled  when  he  saw  him  draw 
out  a  knife ;  it  was  not  however  destined  to  efifect  anything  very 
terrible ;  for  stooping  down,  all  Auger  did  with  it  was,  to  introduce 


400  INGENUE  J    OR, 

it  between  two  bricks  in  the  floor,  and,  with  a  slight  effort,  showing 
that  they  had  been  loosened  before,  to  take  one  up. 

Then  he  paused,  kneeling  by  the  aperture  he  had  made ;  and 
looking  around  him,  listened ;  but  there  was  nothing  stirring ;  so, 
introducing  his  fingers  most  carefully  into  the  hole,  Auger  drew 
forth  a  large  piece  of  gold. 

"  His  hiding-place,  by  Jove  !"  said  Retif. 

Having  put  the  money  into  his  pocket,  Auger  replaced  the  brick, 
rubbed  his  shoe  over  the  spot,  went  and  fetched  his  table  and  his 
trunk,  and,  all  being  in  order,  undressed,  put  out  his  light,  and  went 
to  bed. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes,  Retif  heard  him  snore  as  though  he  had 
no  crimes  on  his  conscience.  As  for  Retif,  sleep  was  impossible ; 
the  news  of  the  morning  and  the  discoveries  of  the  evening  had,  as 
he  said,  banished  Morpheus  from  his  pillow ;  but  Retif,  as  he  lay 
awake,  set  about  planning  against  the  peace  of  Auger,  in  such  a 
masterly  way,  that,  could  Auger  have  divined  his  thoughts,  he 
would  not  have  remained  an  instant  longer  under  the  same  roof 
with  him,  but  packing  up  his  treasures,  would  have  fled. 

The  next  morning,  however,  Retif  so  mastered  his  feelings  as  to 
receive  the  rogue  in  his  usual  manner,  responding  to  his  caresses  and 
breakfasting  with  him  with  his  usual  appetite. 

As  soon  as  Auger  had  departed,  Retif,  putting  on  his  old  great- 
coat went  to  pay  a  visit  to  Reveillon,  to  whom  indeed  it  is  time 
that  we  ourselves  should  pay  our  respects. 

Completely  ruined,  Reveillou  had  turned  philosopher. 

His  misfortunes  had  made  him  interesting ;  his  former  enemies, 
those  who  envied  him  in  his  prosperity,  were  full  of  sympathy  and 
pity. 

Santerre  had  come  forward  and  offered  his  house  to  this  unfortu- 
nate family. 

Santerre  was  rich  and  generous ;  his  hospitality  was  celebrated 
all  through  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 

House,  horses,  servants,  and  splendid  table,  were  all  at  the  ser- 
vice of  Santerre 's  friends,  as  well  as  a  hearty  welcome.  There 


THE   FIRST   DAYS   OP   BLOOD.  401 

was  no  fault  to  be  found,  excepting,  perhaps,  that  politics  were  a 
little  too  much  discussed  at  M.  Santerre's. 

But  then  it  was  the  fashion  to  talk  politics,  progress  and 
reform. 

M.  de  La  Fayette  and  M.  de  Lameth  talked  politics ;  the  queen 
and  M.  le  Count  d'Artois  talked  politics ;  everybody  was  bitten 
with  a  political  mania;  until,  at  last,  everybody  began  to  take 
part  in  politics,  and  then  nobody  had  any  more  time  to  discuss 
them. 

Reveillon  and  his  daughters  had  taken  refuge  at  Santerre's. 

The  brewer,  on  examining  the  destruction  of  Retifs  house,  had 
discovered  that  not  only  was  money  required  to  repair  it,  but  it 
would  also  take  much  time  and  a  good  deal  of  management. 

A  little  policy,  a  good  deal  of  party  spirit,  might  make  Re- 
veillon an  object  of  sympathy  to  his  political  friends,  and  they 
probably  might  help  him  to  repair  his  fortune.  As  for  Santcrre, 
he  offered  all  he  could — the  only  thing  within  his  capacity — 
money. 

Reveillon,  however,  who,  for  the  sake  of  his  daughters,  had  con- 
sented to  accept  Santerre's  hospitable  offer,  got  angry  the  moment 
money  was  tendered  him.  To  offer  him  twenty  thousand  francs 
was  more  than  he  could  bear ;  he — the  great  Reveillon — the  rich 
millionaire  of  the  Faubourg.  Besides,  he  was  very  grateful ;  but 
what  were  twenty  thousand  francs  ?  what  would  they  do  ?  Then 
Reveillon  would  begin  his  lamentations  about  his  funds  lost  in  the 
fire ;  and  Santerre,  half  offended,  withdrew  his  proposal. 

Still,  Sauterre  was  full  of  affectionate  attention  for  Reveillon 
and  his  daughters,  and  was  very  glad  to  welcome  Retif,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  one  of  their  friends,  and  for  whom  he  himself  had  a 
personal  liking,  and  rather  felt  disposed  to  court  Retif — as  political 
men  always  have  an  inclination  to  do  writers — particularly  writers 
for  newspapers. 

Then  Retif  himself,  thanks  to  his  misfortunes,  was  a  hero  him- 
self. Ingenue's  miserable  death  had  produced  great  effect  all  over 
Paris,  making  her  story  perhaps  far  more  interesting  than  that  of 
the  Reveillons. 


402  INGENUE;  OR, 

Misfortune  had  changed  Reveillon ;  he  was  much  broken,  and 
looked  much  older.  As  Retif  entered,  he  gazed  at  him  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  sorrow  had  made  so  slight  an  impression  on 
him  ;  whence  he  concluded  that  the  loss  of  an  only  daughter  was 
not  so  painful  as  the  loss  of  five  hundred  thousand  francs. 

Santerre,  having  talked  a  little  while  with  Eetif,  withdrew,  leav- 
ing the  friends  together ;  then  it  was  that  their  confidential  con- 
versation commenced. 

"  Well,  my  good  friend,"  said  Retif,  "  how  do  you  think  you 
shall  be  able  to  bear  your  present  position  ?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  begin  the  world  all  over  again." 

"  But,"  said  Retif,  "your  enemies?" 

"  Oh,  since  my  misfortune,  I  appear  to  have  more  friends  than 


"  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"Yes;  if  I  had  another  establishment,  my  enemies  would  all 
come  and  buy,  to  see  how  I  bore  reverse  of  fortune.  My  friends, 
too,  would  be  of  course  bound  to  support  me ;  so  that,  counting 
friends  and  enemies  together,  I  should  have,  I  suppose,  two  hundred 
thousand  customers  in  Paris  at  the  end  of  the  year.  I  should 
have  realized  a  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  Quite  a  fortune,"  said  Retif. 

"  The  beginning  of  a  fortune,"  said  the  rich  paper-hanger,  dis- 
dainfully. 

"  Well,  you  know  a  second  fortune  one  makes  is  never  as  great 
as  a  first." 

"  But  I  have  nothing  to  begin  upon,"  replied  Reveillon. 

« Nothing,"  said  Retif;  " literally  nothing?" 

"  Nothing,  Monsieur  Retif." 

"  But  credit." 

"  Credit !"  said  Reveillon,  with  a  scornful  laugh ;  "  one  has  very 
little  credit  when  one  is  known  to  have  nothing." 

"  But  Santerre,  has  he  not  offered  to  assist  you  ?" 

"  I  accept  nothing  of  any  one,"  replied  Reveillon,  proudly. 

"  You  are  quite  right ;  I  should  do  exactly  the  same.    Be  be- 


THE   FIRST   DAYS  OF   BLOOD.  403 

bolden  to  no  one,  and  if  you  make  your  fortune  again,  do  it  by 
your  own  hands." 

"  Ah !"  said  Reveillon,  "  you  at  least  understand  me." 

Retif  looked  at  him  with  pity  and  affection,  not  unmiugled  with 
curiosity  ;  for  he  was  not  sorry  as  a  philosopher,  to  see  how  a  rich 
man  bore  reverses. 

"  Well,"  at  length  said  he,  "  you  must  live  in  hopes  that  some- 
thing will  come  to  your  aid." 

"  Hope !  on  what  should  I  found  my  hopes  ?  I  expect  nothing." 

"  Would  you  want  a  very  large  sum  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  very  large  sum." 

"Well,  but  how  much?" 

"  More  than  you  can  give  me,  my  poor  friend." 

Retif  chuckled  inwardly,  but  remained  outwardly  very  grave. 

At  this  moment,  the  daughters  of  Reveillon  entered,  and  the 
conversation  of  course  took  another  turn,  and  poor  Ingenue's  death 
became  the  theme.  Retif  very  patiently  listened  to  fresh  details 
given  him  on  that  melancholy  subject  by  the  young  ladies,  and  at 
length,  having  wept  and  sighed  and  been  consoled,  he  departed 
very  much  pitied  by  his  friends. 

"  Though,"  said  Reveillon,  "  after  all,  he  lias  only  lost  a  child 
who  was  never  destined  to  be  happy,  for  she  had  no  fortune,  and 
perhaps  who  is,  after  all,  better  in  heaven.' 

Reveillon,  as  he  said  these  last  words,  looked  at  his  own 
daughters — brought  up  in  every  luxury — whom  he  imagined  now 
destined  to  every  privation. 

The  young  girls  understood  his  glances,  but  they  could  not  but 
find  some  consolation-r-though  they  had  lost  their  fortune — in  the 
reflection  tliat  they  were  young  and  beautiful,  particularly  when 
they  thought  of  poor  Ingenue,  buried  beneath  the  burning  ruins 
of  their  father's  counting-house. 

21 


404  INGENUE;  OR, 

CHAPTER    LXY. 

IN    WHICH   AUGER   IS    DISTURBED    AT   DINNER. 

WE  MUST  now  return  to  Monsieur  Auger,  that  excellent  and 
exemplary  man,  to  whom,  had  he  lived  in  our  days,  the  academy 
would  undoubtedly  have  awarded  the  prize  for  morality. 

His  plans  were  now  complete,  and  he  had  already  commenced 
his  preparations. 

As  popular  as  ever  with  all  the  world,  he  pursued  his  usual 
course  of  life,  in  no  way  disquieted  by  his  robbery  of  Reveillon,  or 
by  the  death  of  his  wife.  Pitied  and  admired  by  the  Faubourg  St. 
Antoine  and  the  Rue  des  Bernardins,  the  ungrateful  scamp  was 
secretly  making  his  arrangements  to  quit  his  native  France,  or  at 
all  events,  the  capital  where  he  was  so  beloved  and  adored. 

He  pictured  to  himself  a  future,  in  some  distant  province,  where, 
in  the  exercise  of  some  calling  which  might  answer  as  a  pretext  for 
his  wealth,  he  would  marry  some  woman  less  etherial  than  Ingenue 
— the  daughter  of  some  respectable  dealer  in  silk  or  wool — who 
had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  literary  man,  in  all  her  life. 
For,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  Auger  entertained  the  profoundust 
disgust  for  Retif. 

.  In  these  delightful  visions,  instead  of  a  miserable  chamber  in  the 
Rue  des  Bernardins,  Auger  saw  himself  established  in  a  neat  little 
cottage,  and  surrounded  with  every  comfort  and  convenience,  and 
regarded  with  respect  by  all  his  neighbors-«-a  good  husband — a 
model  father — rich — respectable — a  man  possessed  of  all  the  virtues 
that  adorn  society ! 

Auger  was  so  ambitious  of  a  good  name,  that  he  would  have  cut 
the  throat  of  one  half  of  the  world  if  it  would  have  helped  him  to 
the  good  opinion  of  the  other  half. 

Not  to  be  too  diffuse,  however,  we  will  come  to  the  point  at 
o:ice,  and  say  that  what  follows  took  place  on  the  16th  of  May, 
and  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  days  of  spring. 


THE   FIRST  DATS   OF   BLOOD.  405 

The  flowers  were  in  full  bloom,  and  at  the  corner  of  every  street 
bouquets  were  thrust  into  your  face  by  eager  little  flower  girls, 
while  at  every  window,  where  there  was  a  woman,  the*  perfume  of 
flowers  greeted  you,  either  from  those  she  held  in  her  hand  or  had 
in  her  bosom.  The  early  fruits  were  hidden  in  the  green  leaves, 
and  the  birds  twittered  in  the  trees  with  intense  delight. 

Auger  and  Retif  sat  at  the  table  at  dinner ;  Auger  was  in  an 
unusually  amiable  temper,  and  kept  looking  up  at  Retif,  who 
appeared  very  much  overpowered  with  grief  and  sorrow. 

He,  so  adroit  with  his  fingers,  had  let  fall  a  plate,  then  he  had 
broken  a  glass ;  he  was,  in  fact,  quite  absorbed  and  abstracted. 

"  Why,"  said  Auger,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  you  know  it  is  un- 
lucky to  break  a  glass." 

"  Unlucky — is  it,  indeed  ?"  said  Retif,  with  a  singular  smile, 
which  Auger  remembered  afterwards. 

Auger  continued  to  talk,  and  Retif  to  make  a  most  unusual 
noise  with  everything  he  touched,  giving  Auger  wine,  and  serving 
him  with  great  assiduity,  when  suddenly  a  singular  noise  was 
heard  without 

It  was  a  sort  of  muffled  noise,  perfectly  indescribable ;  but  so 
slight,  that  after  listening  for  an  instant,  Auger  went  on  eating, 
but  Retif  turned  pale. 

"How  nervous  you  are?"  said  Auger ;  "  why,  what  is  the  mat- 
tcr  ?"  said  he,  as  Retif,  taking  up  the  bottle,  poured  nearly  all  its 
contents  on  the  table  :  "  have  you  some  new  novel  in  your  head?" 

"  You  have  guessed  it,"  said  Retif;  "  I  am  thinking  of  my  plot." 

"  Come,  tell  me  your  plot,"  said  Auger  ;  "  you  know  your  sto- 
ries amuse  me." 

« If  you  like,  I  will,"  said  Retif. 

"  Is  there  any  love  in  it  ?" 

"Of  course " 

"  Virtuous  love,  I  hope,"  said  Anger ;  "  you  know  your  books 
are  sometimes  a  little  naughty." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"Yea,  I  do." 

"  You  are  a  great  stickler  for  morality,  I  see,  Auger." 


406  '  INGENUE;  OR, 

"  Yes,"  said  Auger. 

"  Well,  let  me  tell  you  my  plot.  I  am  sure  you  will  approve  of 
this  tale ;  for  virtue,  in  it,  is  rewarded,  and  crime  punished." 

"  That  is  what  I  like,"  said  Auger  ;  "  come,  now  begin  ?"  and 
Auger,  having  copiously  dined,  put  his  two  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  prepared  to  listen. 

At  this  moment  th"e  indescribable  noise  which  had  attracted  his 
attention  before  was  repeated,  but  evidently  much  nearer. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Auger. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  said  Retif. 

The  door  opened,  and  four  soldiers  entered  the  room,  whilst  two 
commissaries  of  police  glided  in  after  them. 

Auger  turned  pale,  and  looked  at  his  father-in-law. 

"  What  does  this  all  mean  ?"  said  he. 

"  Which  of  you  is  named  Auger  ?"  said  the  commissary,  out  of 
pure  formality ;  for  he  evidently  knew  perfectly  well. 

"  Not  I,"  said  Retif,  immediately  getting  up,  and  placing  himself 
under  the  protection  of  the  sentinels. 

"  My  name  is  Auger,"  said  Auger,  boldly. 

"Then  you  are  accused  of  having  assassinated  Mademoiselle 
Ingenue  de  la  Bretonne,  your  wife,"  said  the  commissary,  with  the 
utmost  politeness. 

«  j » 

"  You,  Monsieur  Auger." 

"  Who  can  have  invented  so  base  a  story?"  said  Auger,  clasp- 
ing his  hands,  and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Why,  Mademoiselle  Ing6nue  de  la  Bretonne  herself,"  replied 
the  commissary. 

"My  wife?" 

"Your  wife !  see!  the  accusation  is  written  in  her  own  hand." 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  Auger,  stupifled,  and  gazing  at  the  writing. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  commissaire,  with  most  provoking  politeness, 
"  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  read  you  this  letter ;  but,  as  you 
appear  to  have  some  difficulty  in  standing,  I  beg  you  will  sit  down." 

Auger,  determined  to  brave  it  out,  remained  standing,  and 
signed  to  the  officer  to  proceed. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  407 

"  I,  Ingenue  Retif  de  la  Bretonne,  certify  that  my  husband, 
Auger,  on  the  evening  of  the  burning  of  the  house  of  M.  Reveil- 
lon,  struck  me  and  wounded  me  with  a  poniard ;  and,  as  a  proof,  I 
give  the  wound  in  my  bosom  and  the  witness  who  saved  me." 

"  It  is  a  lie,  a  calumny,  a  vile  lie !"  exclaimed  Auger.  "  Where 
is  Ingenue  ?  let  me  see  her." 

"  Allow  me  to  continue,"  said  the  commissaire. 

"  And  I  further  declare,  that  my  husband  was  tempted  to  assas- 
sinate me,  because  I  discovered  him  in  the  act  of  stealing." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Auger,  turning  pale,  and  looking  towards 
Retif  imploringly;  but  Retif s  look  revealed  that  there  was  no 
hope  left. 

" Is  that  all?"  said  he. 

"  No,"  replied  the  commissaire  ;  "  there  is  still  the  signature  of 
the  witness,  at  which  I  must  request  you  to  look." 

Auger  leant  over  the  paper,  and  beneath  Ingenue's  signature, 
he  read — "  CHARLES  Louis  DE  BOURBON,  Count  d'Artois." 

"  I  am  lost,"  said  he ;  "  I  am  lost  1" 

The  four  soldiers  now  advanced,  and  led  him  out ;  whilst  Retif, 
overpowered  by  emotion,  held  on  to  the  back  of  a  chair,  in  order 
not  to  fall 

Auger,  when  Ijp  got  to  the  door,  turned  round,  and  gazed  with 
a  look  of  despair  at  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  then,  with  a 
curse,  followed  the  soldiers. 

Retif  alone  knew  how  to  interpret  that  look,  and  his  heart  beat 
with  joy ;  then,  going  to  the  window,  he  gazed  out  at  Auger,  and 
the  crowd  gathered  round  him,  astonished  to  behold  the  situation 
in  which  he  was  placed — he  whose  conduct  had  edified  the  whole 
neighborhood. 

21* 


408  INGENUE;  OR, 


CHAPTER    LXVI. 

RETIF    TAKES    REVEILLON    OUT    FOR   A   "WALK. 

THE  news  of  Auger's  arrest  soon  spread  through  Paris  ;  for,  if 
all  Paris  was  not  interested  in  Eetif,  all  Paris  was  interested  in 
Keveillon,  and  all  Paris  was  glad  to  find  some  scape-goat,  on  whom 
to  put  some  of  the  crimes  and  enormities  of  the  pillage  and  ruin 
of  the  rich  paper-hanger. 

Auger's  trial  went  on  with  most  wonderful  celerity,  and  M. 
Eetif  de  la  Bretonne,  who  was  one  of  the  principal  witnesses,  took 
care  not  to  retard  it,  in  any  possible  way. 

Twelve  days  after  his  arrest,  Ketif,  dressing  himself  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  though  it  was  not  Sunday,  wended  his  way  towards  M. 
Santerre's,  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  friend  Reveillon.  Poor  Reveillon 
was  in  terribly  low  spirits  ;  he  felt  himself  poorer  and  more  misera- 
ble every  day — vanity  had  departed ;  the  poor  man  was  completely 
overwhelmed  by  his  misfortunes. 

He  scarcely  raised  his  head  as  Retif  entered  ;  yet,  as  he  had  not 
seen  him  since  Auger's  arrest,  he  expressed  some  interest  in  the 
details  of  the  trial,  and  in  the  fate  of  Ingenue. 

But  Ingenue  had  disappeared,  since  her  revelation  of  Auger's 
crime,  and  none  knew  where  she  was. 

Having  finished  his  story,  Retif  sat  down  beside  his  old  friend, 
and  seeing  him  so  absorbed  in  grief,  tenderly  took  his  hand. 

Reveillon  looked  up  at  him,  Und  read  such  consolation  in  his 
look,  that  he  smiled. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  brought  me  good  news,"  said  he. 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  replied  Retif,  compassionately,  and  then  there 
was  a  melancholy  pause. 

"  I  wish  I  could,  in  some  way,  amuse  you,"  said  Retif. 

"  Amuse  me  1"  exclaimed  Reveillon ;  "  where  should  I  find 
amusement,  after  all  my  misfortunes  ?" 


THE    FIRST   DAY3   OF   BLOOD.  409 

"  I,  in  your  situation,"  replied  Retif,  "  if  I  did  not  find  amuso- 
ment,  should,  at  least,  find  some  occupation ;  I  would  try  and 
revenge  myself." 

"  What  I  on  six  thousand  persons ;  as  you  have  upon  Auger  ?" 

"  Providence  always  punishes  the  guilty,"  said  Retif;  "  that  is 
some  satisfaction." 

"  Very  little,  I  think,"  said  Reveillon ;  "  for  instance,  suppose 
Providence  has  punished  those  who  robbed  me — it  has  not  brought 
back  my  money." 

"  Suppose  you  knew  who  had  robbed  you ;  would  you  not  bo 
happy  to  get  hold  of  him  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  should ;  and  he  should  never  get  out  of  my  hands 
alive.  Yes;  vengeance  is  some  relief;  for  instance,  many  of  my 
assailants  got  burnt  in  my  cellars,  and  poisoned  by  drinking  vitriol 
and  turpentine  for  kirsch  and  brandy ;  I  confess  I  am  not  sorry 
when  I  think  of  it  As  I  watched  them  fall  into  the  flames,  on 
that  fatal  night,  from  the  towers  of  the  Bastille,  I  felt  anything  but 
pity." 

"  Yet  it  was  a  grand  sight,  particularly  when  all  the  colors  and 
MBULi]  took  fire,"  said  Retif ;  "  it  was  as  grand  as  an  exhibition 
of  fireworks." 

Reveillon  bowed  and  smiled  ;  he  was  delighted  to  think  his  ruin 
had  been  so  very  grand  and  was  so  much  admired. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Retif,  "  let  us  go  and  take  a  walk." 

"  Take  a  walk !"  said  Reveillon  ;  "  what  for  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  want  to  show  you  something." 

Reveillon,  for  want  of  something  better  to  do,  followed  Retif 
into  the  streets.  He  took  him  along  the  quays,  which  were  filled 
with  people,  all  going  in  the  same  direction  ;  but  this  was  nothing 
wonderful,  for,  in  those  days,  it  took  very  little  to  make  all  Paris 
go  in  the  same  direction,  on  the  same  hue  and  cry.  They  pro- 
ceeded on,  till,  at  length,  they  came  to  the  Place  de  Greve.  In  the 
middle  of  the  Place  de  Greve  was  a  new  gibbet,  with  a  new  rope 
suspended  from  it,  which  was  most  playfully  swaying  to  and  fro  in 
the  wind. 

"  Hallo  !"  said  Reveillon,  "  is  there  going  to  be  an  execution?" 
18 


410  INGENUE  ;    OB, 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  said  Retif ;  "  and,  as  executions  always  take 
place  at  two,  and,  as  it  is  near  that  hour,  suppose  we  stay  and 
see  it  ?" 

"  Stay  and  see  it !  that  is  a  strange  taste." 

"  Oh,  authors,  you  know,  must  see  everything ;  Mercier,  for 
instance,  has  been  into  all  the  bad  houses  of  Paris." 

"  And  you  intend  to  imitate  him,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Imitate  him  !  never !    I  never  imitate  any  one  ;  I  create." 

"  So  you  intend  to  create  an  execution  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  how  the  wretch  will  die." 

"  Do  you  know  the  criminal,  then  ?" 

"  A  little  ;  so  do  you." 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?" 

"  You  will  see  ;  for  we  have  got  into  a  capital  place,  and  cannot 
fail  to  see  him,  as  he  passes." 

"  Yes ;  look — here  comes  the  escort." 

The  escort  it  was  ;  and  behind  the  escort  came  the  cart ;  in  this 
cart  was  the  criminal,  in  the  prison  livery,  and  beside  him  was  the 
priest.  His  back  was  towards  Retif  and  Reveillon;  but  they 
could  see  that  he  could  scarcely  support  himself,  and  was  held  up 
by  those  near  him.  Now  the  cart  turned,  and  in  the  pale,  haggard, 
fainting  criminal,  Retif  and  Reveillon  recognized  Auger. 

"  Auger !"  exclaimed  Reveillon. 

«  The  assassin  of  my  child  !"  said  Retif. 

«  My  clerk  1" 

"  He  who  robbed  you,  when  my  daughter  discovered  him." 

Auger,  probably  magnetically  attracted  towards  the  glances 
which  were  fixed  on  him,  turned  his  eyes  in  their  direction,  and 
discovered  them  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd. 

He  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and  his  eyes,  horribly  distended,  remained 
as  long  as  he  could  see  them,  fixed  upon  the  two  friends. 

Now  he  reached  the  fatal  gibbet ;  the  executioner  tapped  him  on 
the  shoulder,  and  the  priest  embraced  him.  He  mounted  the  fatal 
ladder ;  the  rope  was  put  round  his  neck,  and  in  two  minutes  he 
was  launched  into  eternity. 


THE   FIRST  DAYS   OF   BLOOD.  4U 

Reveillon,  pale  and  trembling,  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the 
support  of  Rotif ;  but  Retifa  inexorable  glance  had  never  once 
quailed  at  the  terrible  sight ;  he  had  watched  it  to  the  end,  without 
flinching. 

"  Hare  you  been  amused  ?"  said  he  to  Reveillon,  when  all  was 
over. 

"  Amused !"  said  he  ;  "I  am  nearly  dead  !  Take  me  away  ;  I 
shall  always  have  this  terrible  spectacle  before  my  eyes." 

"  Never  mind  ;  you  have  been  amused!" 

"  Yea  ;  with  a  vengeance." 

"  Well ;  while  you  were  looking  at  the  execution,  did  you  onc« 
think  of  your  money  ?" 

"  No !"  said  Reveillon ;  "  but  I  really  feel  ill,  I  assure  you." 

"  Try  and  support  yourself  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  I  will 
take  you  out  of  the  crowd." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  do  1" 

Retif  led  him  along  the  quay,  towards  the  Rue  des  Bernardins. 

"  Let  us  go  into  a  coffee-house,"  said  Reveillon ;  "  give  me  a 
glass  of  brandy  ;  I  shall  faint." 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  said  Retif ;  "  you  are  close  to  my  house. 
I  liave  something  that  will  nerve  you  better  than  brandy." 

"  At  your  house  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  something  which  never  failed  to  revive  and  to  console." 

"  Ah,  that  must  be  precious  stuff.  I  hope  you  will  give  me  the 
prescription,  my  dear  Retif,  for  no  one  wants  it  more  than  I  do." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  Rue  des  Bernardins  and  Re- 
tife's  abode.  With  great  effort,  he  got  the  paper-hanger  up  stairs, 
took  him  into  bis  apartment ;  there,  after  allowing  him  to  rest  a 
moment  in  his  own  room,  he  made  him  enter  that  formerly  occu- 
pied by  Auger,  and,  drawing  forth  an  arm-chair,  seated  Reveillon 
in  it  Then  Retif,  going  up  to  the  chimney,  took  a  pair  of  tongs 
and  put  them  into  Reveillon's  hands. 

Reveillon,  somewhat  alarmed,  and  very  much  astonished,  hesi- 
tated to  take  them ;  but  Retif  insisted. 

u  Take  them,"  said  he  ;  "  they  will  do  you  good." 


412  IXGEXUE;  OK, 

Beveillon  looked  at  Retif;  he  thought  he  had  gone  mad. 

"  See,"  said  Retif,  as  Reveillon  took  the  tongs,  "  I  will  show  you 
how  to  use  them."  With  this,  Retif  put  the  tongs  between  the 
oricks,  and  tried  to  move  them. 

"  You  have  lost  your  senses,"  said  Reveillon  ;  "  my  poor  friend, 
sorrow  has  turned  your  brain." 

"  Pull  up  the  brick !"  shouted  Retif. 

Reveillon,  alarmed  at  Retifs  excited  manner,  obeyed ;  and, 
•with  the  two  bricks,  several  pieces  of  gold  fell  on  the  floor. 

The  astonished  paper-hanger  stooped  down ;  they  were  real 
louis  d'ors. 

"  You  old  miser !"  said  he,  smiling  at  Retif,  "  they  are  good  louis, 
and  what  a  quantity !"  added  he,  plunging  his  hand  into  the  hole 
in  the  floor,  and  bringing  out  a  handful.  "  What  do  you  do  with 
all  this  gold,  you  old  miser  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Reveillon,"  said  Retif,  "  will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
count  the  gold  ?" 

Reveillon  obeyed ;  he  liked  to  handle  gold ;  he  counted  for  a 
whole  hour  ;  there  were  three  thousand  louis,  all  but  one — the  one 
Auger  had  taken  the  night  Retif  had  watched  him. 

"'  Two  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  louis,"  said  Re- 
veillon, as  he  counted  the  last. 

"  It  is  all  yours,  M.  Reveillon,"  said  Retif :  "  it  is  the  gold  that 
my  son-in-law  stole  when  he  murdered  Ingenue." 

Reveillon  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  clasped  the  honest  old  man 
in  his  arms. 

"  Mine,  Retif ;  no,  we  must  share  it." 

"  Never !  Reveillon,  never  I  it  is  yours.  I  would  not  touch  it 
for  the  world  I" 

"  But,  Retif,  my  benefactor — my  friend " 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  said  he  ;  "  if  I  accepted  anything,  I  could  not 
write  this  beautiful  sentence  at  the  end  of  the  narrative  I  am  com- 
posing on  these  events.  It  has  taken  me  a  great  while  to  com- 
pose it  :— 

" '  And  honest  Dulis  refused  to  receive  a  reward ;  for  he  was 


THE    FIRST   DAYS    OF    BLOOD.  413 

richer  in  his  poverty  than  the  rich  man  in  his  prosperity,  for  his 
soul  was  above  lucre.' " 

With  this,  Retif  pushed  the  bag  of  gold  towards  Reveillon,  and 
going  up  to  the  case,  began  immediately  to  set  up  the  magnificent 
sentence  he  had  composed. 


EPILOGUE. 

FOUR  years  have  passed,  since  the  events  we  recorded  in  our  last 
volume. 

In  a  vast  and  ancient  chateau,  in  the  kingdom  of  Poland,  three 
persons  were  seated  at  breakfast  before  a  large  fire,  while  a  young 
child,  who  had  finished  his  meal,  and  had  already  quitted  the  table, 
was  running  riotously  about  the  immense  apartment. 

One  portion  of  this  immense  saloon  was  brilliantly  illuminated 
by  the  rays  of  the  sun  ;  while  the  other  extremity  seemed  lost  in 
the  vague  obscurity  produced  by  thick  rows  of  pine  trees,  by  which 
one  portion  of  the  building  was  surrounded. 

The  whole  style  of  the  place  was  antique  and  grand.  The  furni- 
ture, the  ceilings,  the  curtains,  all  were  of  the  barbaric  splendor 
which  characterized  the  mansions  of  the  old  Scandinavian  chiefs 
and  princes.  The  servants,  silent  and  deferential  as  slaves,  glided 
noiselessly  about,  watching  anxiously  every  changing  expression  ou 
the  faces  of  their  superiors. 

A  woman  of  about  forty-two  years  of  age,  was  seated  at  the 
table.  A  few  white  hairs  were  mingling  with  her  magnificent 
locks  ;  but  she  had  disdained  to  hide  them,  and  their  silver  threads 
traced  their  way  shiningly  amidst  the  smooth,  rich  ringlets.  Her 
face  wore  an  expression  of  severity,  which  spoke  of  the  perpetual 
habit  of  command.  She  seemed  as  if  she  were  seated  on  a  throne, 
beside  the  table.  This  was  the  Countess  Olinski. 

Christian,  her  son,  was  seated  on  her  right  hand,  while  on  her 
left  sat  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  rich  in  all  those  captivating 
charms  which  maternity  alone  develops  in  the  female  form. 


414  INGENUE;  OR, 

This  was  Ingenue,  now  become  the  Countess  Olinski ;  and  the 
child,  who  was  romping  with  an  immense  Polish  dog,  was  her  son, 
now  about  three  years  old. 

He  was  called,  after  his  father,  Christian  ;  and  he  rushed  madly 
about  the  immense  hall,  with  his  delighted  dog,  now  stopping  to 
give  a  kiss  to  one  and  now  to  another  of  the  three  persons  who 
were  watching  him. 

All  at  once  he  stopped  before  a  portrait  of  the  grandfather  of 
the  countess,  painted  in  his  official  costume  as  a  Polish  noble. 

The  child,  half  frightened  at  the  great  moustache,  the  warlike 
air,  and  the  immense  sword,  of  the  Polish  grandee,  recoiled  a  step 
or  two,  made  up  a  mouth  as  if  he  were  going  to  cry,  and  then, 
pausing  a  moment,  thought  better  of  it,  and  resumed  his  romp 
with  his  dog. 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  countess,  at  length,  to  Ingenue, 
"  how  do  you  find  yourself  to-day  ?" 

"  Only  a  little  tired,  madam ;  we  had  such  a  long  ride  yester- 
day!" 

"  And  riding  begins  to  weary  her,"  said  Christian,  with  a  smile, 
and  drawing,  by  a  look,  the  eye  of  the  countess  to  Ingenue's  ex- 
quisite form,  now  beginning  to  give  promise,  by  its  rounded  con- 
tours, of  a  companion  for  the  little  Christian's  sports. 

"  Thus,  pale  and  interesting,"  said  the  countess,  "  does  she  not 
recal  the  image  of  the  unhappy  Marie  Antoinette,  the  victim  of 
those  horrible  monsters  whom  we  have  escaped  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Christian,  with  the  smile  of  the  happy  husband  and 
father ;  "  the  poor  queen  certainly  had  that  same  languid  way  of 
walking,  and  that  undulation  of  the  form — only,  when  she  was  seen 
to  be  like  our  little  countess  here,  a  whole  court  united  in  expres- 
sions of  joy  and  congratulation." 

"  Alas !"  said  the  countess  ;  "  and  in  what  will  all  that  joy  and 
those  congratulations  end  ?  Perhaps  on  the  scaffold,  still  reeking 
with  her  husband's  blood.  And  for  the  children,  what  is  there  in 
store  for  them,  but  a  captivity  more  cruel  than  death  ?  But,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  Ingenue,  "  did  you  not  yesterday  receive 
news  from  your  father  ?" 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.  415 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Ingenue ;  "  I  received  a  letter  yesterday, 
on  returning  from  the  chase.  But  you  were  absent  in  town,  and 
this  morning  I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  you,  knowing  that  you  were 
engaged  in  writing  letters." 

"  IB  your  father  well  ?" 

"  Very  well,  madam,  I  thank  you." 

"  He  still  refuses  to  come  and  live  with  us?  We  would  try  our 
jest  to  make  our  inhospitable  clime  agreeable  to  him." 

"  Admirable  old  man !"  said  Christian. 

"  Madam,"  said  Ingenue,  "  my  father  is  wedded  to  his  Parisian 
life.  He  loves  the  streets,  the  lamps,  the  bustle  of  the  pavements ; 
and,  besides,  he  follows  with  an  intense  interest  the  course  of 
political  events  in  France,  and  from  them  studies  the  philosophy 


"  Then  he  still  continues  to  write?" 

"  Yes,  madam — it  is  his  passion,"  said  Ingenue. 

"  A  lasting  passion,"  said  the  countess. 

"  It  will  not  cease  but  with  his  life,"  replied  Ingenue. 

"  Then  I  suppose  we  must  abandon  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  him 
amongst  us  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  fear  so.  But  you  may  judge  for  yourself,  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  read  you  u  passage  from  his  letter. 

"  Do  so,  my  child." 

Ingenue,  taking  her  father's  letter  from  her  bosom,  read — 

"  MY  DEAR  INGENUE  : — I  have  got  your  portrait,  painted  by  my 
friend,  Monsieur  Greuse.  This  portrait  is  now  my  only  company 
and  comfort.  Amidst  the  savage  wild  beasts  by  whom  I  am  sur- 
rounded, it  smiles  upon  me  like  a  visitant  from  another  world. 

"  Paris  is,  at  the  present  moment,  truly  magnificent  Nothing 
can  equal  the  horror  it  inspires,  or  the  sublimity  of  the  spectacle  it 
presents. 

"  Formerly  we  were  so  sentimental,  that  the  picture  of  my 
friend  Greuse,  the  Broken  Pitcher,  made  everybody  weep  and  turn 
pale  with  sympathy. 

"  But  now,  if  you  see  pallor  or  tears,  you  may  be  sure  of  finding 
out  the  meaning,  if  you  will  go  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  at 


416  IXGEXUE  ;    OR, 

about  four  o'clock — or  to  the  Eue  St.  Honore  ;  for,  as  under  the 
monarchy  there  were  two  places  for  the  public  fireworks,  we  have 
now  two  places  set  apart  for  our  amusement  of  chopping  off  heads. 

"  As  to  myself,  I  keep  on  my  own  way,  amongst  these  martyrs 
and  executioners — astonished  at  not  being  amongst  the  first,  and 
happy  not  to  be  of  the  others. 

"  I  must  own,  my  dear  child,  that  this  revolution  has  sadly  dis- 
appointed me.  I  supposed  that  it  would  lead  to  the  reign  of  phi- 
losophy and  liberty ;  but,  thus  far,  we  have  had  nothing  but 
liberty — no  philosophy  and  no  literature. 

"  Say  to  the  countess  and  your  husband,  that  I  am  most  truly 
grateful  for  their  kind  proposals,  but  that  I  am  still  contented 
with  Paris,  where  I  live  peaceably,  amidst  my  friends — especially 
since  Eeveillon  is  protected  by  General  Santerre. 

"  To  quit  Paris,  and  thus  tear  myself  away  from  all  the  habits 
and  associations  of  my  life,  would  be  death  to  me.  I  do  not 
expect  to  live  very  long,  and  the  present  is  just  the  time  for  dying 
illustriously.  Meanwhile,  I  find  life  very  agreeable — especially 
since  I  have  your  portrait." 

Ingenue  paused. 

"  Unhappy  France !"  sighed  the  countess ;  "  are  we  not  happier 
here,  my  children  ?  Tell  me !" 

"  Oh !"  cried  Christian ;  "  happy !  we  are  as  happy  as  the 
saints  in  paradise !" 

Ingenue  did  not  speak  ;  but,  putting  her  beautiful  white  arms 
around  her  husband's  neck,  she  looked  at  the  countess,  with  her 
eyes  glistening  with  tears. 

A  servant  at  this  moment  entered,  bringing  several  letters  and 
newspapers  on  a  silver  waiter. 

The  countess  handed  the  newspapers  to  Christian,  while  she 
proceeded  to  open  the  letters. 

The  little  Christian  had  again  stopped  in  front  of  the  portrait  of 
his  grim  ancestor,  looking  at  it  with  a  glance  of  defiance. 

"  Grandma,"  said  he,  "  what  is  the  reason  that  I  am  afraid  of 
grandfather  ?  I  want  somebody  to  protect  me  against  him." 

Nobody  heard  him  ;  and  he  went  on  : 


THE    FIRST   DAYS   OF    BLOOD.    .  417 

"  Grandmama's  father,"  said  he,  looking  along  the  row  of  por- 
traits, "  makes  me  afraid ;  where  is  papa's  father,  to  defend  me 
from  him  ?" 

As  the  child  spoke,  Christian  uttered  an  exclamation,  which 
made  both  the  ladies  look  round. 
q  "  What  is  it  ?"  they  inquired. 

"  Oh  !  some  news,  which,  after  all,  ought  not  to  have  surprised 
ne,  as  it  only  proves  that  there  are  still  some  faithful  hearts  and 
strong  hands  in  France." 

"  And  what  is  this  news  ?" 

"  Listen !"  replied  Christian,  reading : 

"  The  deputy,  Marat,  has  just  been  assassinated  in  his  bath,  this 
day,  July  13, 1793.  He  died  instantly,  without  having  time  to 
utter  a  single  word.  To-morrow  we  shall  publish  all  the  partic- 
ulars." 

The  Countess  Olinski  turned  pale  at  the  news  of  Marat ;  but  she 
bit  her  lips,  and  smiled,  without  speaking. 

"  Marat !"  said  Ingenue  ;  "  ah  !  that  is  good  news  indeed  !  He 
was  a  monster  in  human  form  !" 

"  Scarcely  in  human  form,"  said  the  countess — "  but,  Christian, 
have  you  not  another  paper  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  here  is  another,"  said  Christian,  opening  it,  and  reading : 

"  The  assassin  of  Marat  is  a  young  girl  of  the  name  of  Charlotte 
Corday ;  she  was  executed  to-day,  and  died  like  a  heroine." 

"  Charlotte  Corday  I"  exclaimed  Ingenue. 

"  Look,  dearest,  yourself ;  it  is  Charlotte  Corday,"  said  Chris- 
tian, giving  the  paper  to  Ingenue. 

"  Charlotte  Corday !"  murmured  Ingenue ;  "  oh,  Christian  !  she 
it  was  who  saved  me  from  this  monster  !  Poor  Charlotte  Corday!" 

"  Oh,  Providence,  how  inscrutable  are  thy  ways !"  said  Christian. 

"Oh,  Providence,  how  just  are  thy  decrees!"  exclaimed  the 
countess  ;  and,  taking  her  grandson  in  her  arms,  she  clasped  him 
to  her  bosom,  and  hid  her  face  in  his  flowing  hair. 

THE      END. 


A     000  021  948 


